Wait, What?

Although I miss my cats, Grumpy and Dopey, I do not want the commitment of being a slave pet owner for the foreseeable future. I do however, have a permanent reminder, courtesy of Dopey, in the form of a scar on one of my feet.

I'd returned home from work around lunchtime one day, and as it was summer time, the first thing I did was to open the kitchen door and the door to the conservatory to let some fresh air into the house.

After changing out of my uniform into shorts, t-shirt and flip flops, I sat down to chill out for a while with my iPad, catching up on the news, Facebook, emails, yada yada. Then I heard Dopey making the uh-oh-I'm-going-to-chuck-up noise.

I jumped up, ran into the kitchen to grab the kitchen towel, saw her crouching in the conservatory and moved swiftly to place the towel on the floor in front of her.

What I didn't see, was that she'd already thrown up in the doorway. The reason for this oversight was due to the disgustingly patterned kitchen flooring that had came from an era that taste forgot. I can only think that the previous owners of my house were either a)colour blind or b)got the flooring on the cheap and thought, "Meh, that'll do". It was truly vile (and I lost no time in ripping it up after the demise of both of the cats).

My flip-flopped right foot slid on the pile of puke, causing me to look like something out of a cartoon with arms windmilling. I then bounced against the side of the kitchen worktop and my left foot shot forward and wedged itself underneath the lip of the door.

An aluminium door that sliced my foot open a treat.

The only way to remove my foot was to pull it backwards, which opened up the wound further - and yes, there were a copious amount of obscenities uttered.

I realised I needed to get to hospital so it could be stitched and that I needed help to get there, but as it was a Saturday, was Youngest Daughter at home?

Of course not.

So I looked for my phone. Was it in the kitchen with me?

Of course not.

With a fair amount of, "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," to be heard, I sort of hopped to the living room, dripping blood all over the place, grabbed my phone and called Youngest Daughter. Did she answer?

Of course not.

I lost count of the amount of times I tried calling her, getting more and more irritated that she wasn't answering.

So, Plan A had to be abandoned, therefore I had to turn to Plan B: Phone A Friend.

Thankfully, I managed to get hold of my friend, Blunt One ("Fuck me, that looks awful!"), who drove me to A & E and stayed until Youngest Daughter eventually turned up.

After being triaged, watching the raised eyebrows after explaining exactly how it happened ("Cat vomit? Cat?! Vomit?!"), x-rayed to make sure there were no bits of aluminium door in my foot, I then got shown into a room where a doctor was going to stitch it up.

He was quite chatty with Youngest Daughter and I while he was cleaning my wound and during the course of our conversation, I told him I'd never had stitches before. He had to pop out of the room to get something or another, but as he stood in the doorway, with a grin on his face he said, "Don't worry, you will enjoy it!" And then he swept out of the room, with the door closing behind him.

*Blink*

What?

Youngest Daughter and I picked our respective jaws up off the floor, looked at each other in stunned surprise, in a wtf? sort of way, then burst out laughing.

I can't say that I actually enjoyed getting four stitches in my foot, but every time I look at the scar I hear the words, "Don't worry, you will enjoy it!"

And it makes me laugh.

An Unexpected Elevation In Status

I’m in the process of changing my house telephone number. Dealing with the phone company has, at times, made me want to bang my head against a wall.

When I first made the request, I was passed around from pillar to post and back again, until eventually I seemed to be making headway.

Finally I was told that for me to obtain a new number, I have to take out a new contract. “Fine, whatever it takes. I JUST WANT A NEW NUMBER,” was my response.

After giving all the relevant information, a couple of days later I received a letter from the phone company with my new details.

What did I spot at the bottom of the letter?

They hadn’t assigned me a new fecking phone number.

AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH.

So, with blood starting to simmer, I got back on the phone, bounced around the post and pillar again, and ended up talking to someone who FINALLY GOT IT. (Maybe I was previously speaking Martian without realising it or, got passed to someone who speaks rudimentary Martian. Result!)

This morning I received a letter from the company thanking me for my order, blah blah blah.

But.

(And this made me giggle.)

When I looked at the name and address before opening it (something I always do, as the postmen/postwomen/postpeople seem to lose the ability to read at times), it was addressed to Dr Bub D’Lub.

I am a doctor now?! (Or perhaps the guy I was conversing with translated Martian ‘Mrs’ as ‘Dr’.)

I may be many things (off my head is probably first on the list), but last time I checked, a doctor I ain’t.

Or has the phone company somehow decided I am worthy of an honorary doctorate? And what’s it for? Perhaps it was awarded for demonstrating outstanding research in the field of Studies Towards Unintelligent Fools Failing In Telecommunications.

Yes, that must be it.

Okay. I can be a doctor. It means I would have letters after my name.

I am now to be known as:

[drumroll]

Doctor Bub D’Lub STUFFIT.

(Mum, Dad, kids, hope you’re proud of my sudden, unanticipated achievement. Don’t know when the ceremony’s going to be – I’ll have to get back on the phone to the company and put my best Martian phone voice on. And if I get any crap, I’ll say, “Do you know who you’re talking to? I am Bub D'Lub, that's DOCTOR D’LUB STUFFIT to you. I want a ceremony, and I want it NOW!")

[Holding head in hands]

[Then banging head on desktop]

I worry myself sometimes.

I need to get out more.