I need to be myself
I can't be no one else
I'm feeling supersonic
Give me gin and tonic

When most of your time is spent stuck behind elderly drivers a break from the monotony is welcome. Having said that, with the benefit of hindsight a bit of monotony would have been heaven. All I had to do was wrap bacon round fish filets. Guess who forgot to take the bacon out the freezer? Instead I find myself hacking apart a pack of frozen bacon with a disturbingly-sharp knife. Coincidentally, and rather unhelpfully, a mate had kindly sharpened the knife a week earlier. All I'd asked him to do was chop an onion. A sick and blatant conspiracy.

Next thing I know there is blood everywhere. While holding my thumb under the running tap I screamed for the missus. Her immediate reaction was to tell me not to panic. At least that is how I remember it, merged with vague recollections of her scrambling around the kitchen picking up bacon fragments.

She bandaged my thumb, popped a painkiller in my mouth and finished cooking. If you can't be arsed to cook then I hope you're taking notes. Watched TV for a few hours to the mood-defining rhythm of my throbbing thumb. It seemed a good idea to check the thumb before bed...next thing I know we're sitting in a blood bath.

Truth be told had I gone to A&E at 6:30pm I'd probably still be stuck to a waiting-room chair in a massive clot, AND have to fork out a fiver on parking charges, so waiting to 10:30pm was definitely the right move. Are you sure you're ok to drive? I'll be fine, I stated unequivocally.

The carpark was being renovated, so you get directed through a maze of plastic barriers to the exit, at which point you are sent elsewhere. Ruling out parking in a disabled parking spot (in the UK you get shot for that) despite considering that with only one functioning thumb I could probably plead my case, I glide through the maze of death before hitting a patch of black ice. So the car is careering towards a brick wall, my lacerated thumb is screaming the house down and I'm counter-steering with my good hand while considering bringing the thumb into play.

Thank God my killer instincts were still intact.

I explained to the nurse that I'm squeamish, afraid of needles, terrified of hospital dramas and could she talk to me while inspecting my thumb.

We've all done it, she said, in a misguided attempt to distract me, and once during a midnight hunger frenzy she was hacking apart a block of chocolate with a bread knife and managed to spear her thigh. Oh dear, she said, I think you should lie down.