Split Second Decision
It's been an interesting week. My sister-in-law was rushed to hospital with a suspected stroke that turned out to be Bells Palsy leaving her wearing a pirate eye patch and smiling sardonically on one side regardless of how she really feels. A couple of days later my best mate Jill went for a huge stack on her bike during the Down Under event and found herself knocked unconscious only to wake up with two black eyes, stitches inside her mouth and above her eyebrow and a set of inflated lips that may make her look like Angelina Jolie but unable to eat (therefore, even more like Ms Jolie).
My own lingering tennis elbow and stubborn Achilles tendon are, in comparison, pitifully minor ailments.
And yet I could have ended up with something so painful and so humiliating that it would have made the newspapers (if only to divert attention away from the flood damage). What is even more unbelievable is that it was caused by Skipper, our 1.5 kilogram rabbit who, apart from one slightly-annoyed "Eh" when I squirted him with water when it was 43C last summer is silent and accepting.
Life for him is pretty damn comfy. In addition to his two-storey town house with in-built ramp and separate bedroom* facilities, we've also rigged up a rather roomy little grassy area for him to gad about in during the day. There's an old Balinese wrap to give him shade, a bottle of fresh water, heaps of long grass to nibble and lie on and a big box to hide in and/or chew.
Most evenings, after a feed of carrot or cucumber, he's pretty willing to have me lean over the one metre-high fence, scoop him up and put him to bed.
Some nights though, he's clearly chewed a few too many lavender leaves and likes to dash to the far corner out of my grasp.
Nyah na na nyah na!
This means that I can either open the tiny entrance gate and wedge myself through the human equivalent of a cat flap giving the neighbours next door a rather good impression of a chubby human bike-rack or athletically hoik one leg over, gingerly manoevre it so that my girlie bits aren't punctured and then kick the other one over.
It is a tricky little dance and made about ten times more difficult on the return when I've got a squirming little vermin under my left arm pit.
And so it was three nights ago. He scuttled over to the corner, I did my dance and grabbed him, catching a few bonus poos as they shot out like machine gun fire. A normal event at 9pm for me in other words.
Not this time. A bit of sealing tape had fallen off the box and when combined with the dewy grass, made me slip a little. This was not a good time when my left leg was in the process of being wildly flung over the fence. My right leg wobbled, threatening to collapse and I had a nano-second to decide: puncture my left thigh on the fence or keep moving slightly and risk...... and risk ....... slicing myself exactly in half like a busted pair of scissors in full view of the guy on the third floor balcony who was having a smoke and a chat on his mobile.
I chose the former and it h-u-r-t like the time it took over an hour to get my tattoo but compressed into half a second of thudding agony with a sledgehammer replacing the vibrating needle pricks. Thankfully Skipper was still under my armpit and not squashed into a furry scarf. The fence briefly buckled under the weight of my right leg as it missed the height several times but snapped back just in time to whip the inside of my non-injured thigh.
The next morning I had a purple Cadbury Creme egg living in my leg which was a genuine surprise because I'd assumed that my old chunky trunks had enough padding to protect me from everything ranging from a slap to a slug gun. Apparently not.
It's the largest bruise I've ever had so when Sapphire and I went to visit our sister-in-law and my brother to check how she was recovering from Bells Palsy, I just had to join in. "Look at this - I'll take off my jeans but don't worry, you won't see anything rude."
Recent weight gain has meant that my jeans were tighter than normal, so pulling them down meant that they grabbed my knickers too, leaving me bare arsed in their living room. "Omigod, I'm so sorry," I gasped, pulling them back up. Enough polite sympathy for the bruise was received for me to recover from my impromptu plumbing display. Soon after we headed home for some afternoon tea.
Fruit for me after the jeans incident and Sapphire walked in to see me laughing and taking a picture of my plate.
I swear I didn't deliberately arrange it that way.
"Only you could be entertained by a peach and a banana, Mum."
I ignored her, snapping away.
"Oh and we all saw everything, Mum. Thank god the neighbours weren't home."
* Newspaper lined poo room