Guess What?!

I think this picture captures the essential spirit of Easter. Certainly my weekend was dominated by the cocoa bean, not least because I also received my birthday present from Sarah – membership of the ‘chocolate tasting club’. Very dangerous. One of those presents, I suspect, that will mean more expenditure from me, as I will struggle to let the monthly red cross parcels run out after six months.

The children chose to celebrate Easter in their own ways. Once they had finished arranging their mountains of chocolate into different bowls, the girls chose to commemorate the season with an ‘Easter Show’. Very engaging and edifying. Especially at the moment when the inevitable artistic differences arose, and Hope broke off mid prayer to blaspheme heartily. William was obviously unimpressed both by the chocolate-fest and the more spiritual aspects of the season. Chocolate eggs were replaced by the Henry engine that he’d been hanging out for, and his dodgy eyesight led to him mistaking the crown of thorns for a spider, and regaling the congregation of St. Mildred’s with a rendition of Incey Wincey spider at a critical moment in the Good Friday service. He rarely lets me down.

By Easter Monday morning, a combination of cocoa overload, all round frustration with William’s fiddly new pump and general malaise led me to a moment of fragile temper. Moments after I had brought my fist down on the sofa arm, I knew I was in trouble. The picture tells the sorry tale. I have broken my hand. Bugger.

We managed to spend the day taking the kids around an urban farm, but by the evening, with my hand twice its normal size, I thought a trip to A&E would be wise. After returning from the x-ray booth where I now hold a loyalty card and where I was due the next day for a routine x-ray of my leg, the doctor, barely able to disguise her mirth, showed me the good news, and told me that it would need pinning.

In fact, two days later, the ‘hand clinic’ has decided that a plaster cast splint should do the trick, so my bionic bits shouldn’t have to extend above the waist. But I am beginning to look like the willing volunteer in a first aid class. An eye-patch and comedy head bandage would pretty much complete the picture. And I will need a better story than the truth when I face my pupils next week. My medical notes describe the injury as following a ‘karate chop style blow’. Whilst I am not sure that being described as Jackie Chan will improve my chances of being taken seriously in clinic, I can see the benefits of this reputation in the classroom. Perhaps this is the solution. The only other face saving solution has been to blame the inferior quality of the sofa. But perhaps I should never have thought of trusting the upholstery of something described in the IKEA catalogue as an ‘EKESKOG’. I should have heard and recognised the overtones of a Nordic avenger.

There is a website called ‘mybrokenleg.com’. There is not one called ‘mybrokenhand.com’. There is a reason for this. It is very difficult to type using only your left hand. Perhaps it’s out there, but spelled ‘shtswsfdbfb.vom’. Or the equivalent. Either way, my blogs may be a little shorter for a while.