The Finger

I'd better do that response to the ebay guy before I walk into another room and get distracted by what's hidden in the cupboards I've not yet dared to open.

"Come on Milly, let's pop outside." Yep, that's right. Hook that metal thingy on the end - it'll hold, I'm sure it will and grab that pen out of your mouth to take notes and run it along the back of the kayak to the other end and then we'll find out how long it meas--------

Thwackatta Thwackatta zzzzzziip SLAP!

Flying fried fudge flickin' farnacles, I'm literally seeing white sparklers in front of my eyes and feeling as though another two are being rather roughly shoved up each nostril in a crude attempt to give the frontal lobe a bit of a nudge and make doubly sure that all my nerve endings are feeling the effects..... having a metal measuring tape whip back and cruelly crack my infected middle finger hurt. Really really hurt.

The smoking guy on the level two balcony next door heard my agonised sob and saw me doubled over and shuffle crab-like back inside like a shrivelled blonde Shelob before turning his head back to look at the Dodgy Brothers Car Renovators continue their argument in the side street. I guess the issue of whether you'd root Megan Fox or Beyonce is pretty vital viewing.

After a night of tossing and turning in such a way that my middle finger stayed outside the covers like a flesh-coloured fishing pole, today it was time to see the doctor. Large and ET-like at the best of times, today my rude finger (as Sapphire calls it) resembled the celluloid alien's actual head on the end of my finger with its own painful pulse.

Trouble is. the half-hearted health hub we've used for the past two and a bit years is closing down next week and it seems that they can no longer be shagged to answer their phones or - as I discovered this morning - open their doors. I managed to catch Love Chunks at the next set of traffic lights and clamber back in the car.

There was no way I was going to risk my delicate digit to the ministrations of Dr Dodgy in Welly Street. He's infamous around Flemington and LC has never gotten over how I booked him in there for an urgent grease and oil change two days after we arrived: the broken window, slightly rude receptionist wife and slapdash approach to knowledge and professionalism is still the order of the day. LC remains convinced that shivering anatomy served as the street's entertainment that afternoon and still shudders every time he passes by.

No, I was going across the road to Travancore to beg the fancy doctor to see me. He's the guy that everyone says, "Oh yes, I see Dr Divine but he's closed his books now, so I don't know what I'd do without him." Me either, and I'd never got past the clipped, "Sorry, we're not taking new patients" of January 2009.

Feeling ever so slightly tearful as I toddled past the mechanic where Maggie the magna was getting her roadworthy overhaul done, I pushed open the medic's door; brass bell a dinga linga linging.

I decided that a visual was the best way to get the attention of the woman behind the counter and walked in brandishing what looked like a swollen and very angry red version of The Bird.

"Hello my name is Kath and I usually got to Half-Hearted Health Hub on Racecourse but they're shutting down and we're moving to Switzerland in exactly three weeks to the day and somehow I've infected my finger, no that's a lie, I know how I did it because I shred the cuticles around my nails and finally I've got the result I probably deserve but it is making things like taking DVDs out of their covers and into plastic sleeves and packing boxes pretty hard and I'm hoping - no, actually I'm begging you; you seem like a very kind hearted and reasonable person - to get me looked at today---------"

She held up a hand to stop me. Lord knows I couldn't. "How does lunchtime sound?"

It sounded utterly brilliant. I skipped out of there - well I tried, but the pulsating weight of my Rude Finger meant that I instead lurched slightly to the left and found myself falling inside the laundromat next door before altering my stride to make it back home across the road.

A couple of hours later Dr Divine said, "You're not a fainter, are you?"

Nope. Never have been. Had enough blood tests due to the 'ol tumour that I can tell you exactly what vein to shove the needle in and gleefully watch as you do it.

Well ram my sorry soggy arse up against a poo encrusted mini skip and call it Tony Abbott what the hell are you-----

"Sorry about that, I have to lift up the nail and puncture the skin around it a few times to let some pus out, so it'll sting a bit."

No sparklers today; this time the cartoon tweety birds made an appearance.

Back home with an arm no longer dragging on the ground and the simple bliss of soaking the finger in a cup of warm salty water whilst trying to type out 'self contained accommodation, pet-friendly, Geneva' is a simple pleasure.