There was a moment many years ago when I thought my first husband might actually lose his hand.
Let me give you a little context here before I explain. I’m a messy person, my desk looks a little like my brain if you were to climb inside a little capsule and go up to brainland for a visit, you know, through my veins. Actually it would be through the arteries wouldn’t it, otherwise you’d be going against the traffic flow which could get messy.
Up there in brainland and on my desk too, are lots of random piles of stuff. This morning there was a light bulb on my keyboard. I’m pretty sure I didn’t put it there and am almost convinced my husband did when he was trying to fix the broken flickering light whose abject explosion meant last night I had to work by candlelight. The husband I’m married to now that is, not the one who almost lost his hand.
I don’t mind it the messy way, occasionally I’ll have a hissy fit and tidy it all up which makes me feel all clean and virtuous and like a real woman, one who’s organised and does things properly instead of the random higgledy-piggledy way I have been known to go about life, except when I’m doing proper professional stuff for big companies and obsessive bosses when I morph into sensible, ever so well organised, professional demon woman running my life like a surgical ward. There must be a happy medium somewhere, have you found one?
Anyway, back to the (first) husband with the hand. He was the polaric opposite personality type to me, the only man I know who would come home from work, take off his perfectly polished shoes at the door, walk straight to the kitchen and get down on his hands and knees with the dustpan and brush to sweep up imaginary crumbs.
We’d look at each other and wonder how on earth we had come together. I still can’t answer that question, some things are best left unanswered aren’t they?
On the fateful hand day in Phuket, we had just checked into our room after our flight from the UK, at The Royal Phuket Yacht Club which is now refurbished as the stunning Nai Harn Phuket, when he threw his suitcase down onto the bed, clicked it open and removed his underpants. I had just emerged from the bathroom following lady refreshments, when he padded past me and started pouring shampoo into the basin. He added hot water, swished it around and threw in his smalls.
Frantic scrubbing and splashing ensued before he emerged purposefully from the bathroom, strode out towards the balcony and walked straight through the plate glass door. We had been in the resort for less than ten minutes.
For the next three days his bedside view was not the sunset of Nai Harn Bay, nor the palms waving in the breeze. There were no cocktails, club sandwiches, or tom yum goong by the pool for him, although I had quite a relaxed few days with my book. His saline drip obscured the view of the hospital staff quarters and he lived on a diet of rice while the wonderful medical staff reattached bits of his tendons to their original quarters and kept his hand together. It survived, you’ll be happy to know.
In hindsight, there are two morals to the story:
- Always have travel insurance, because you just never know when you might almost lose a hand while washing your smalls;
- Meticulous people are not always smarter and better organised than randoms;
- Desks, whilst a lot like brains, are not reliable indicators of smarts.
Are you a meticulous or a random?
Post me a picture of your desk. Go on, I dare you….