I am currently typing with only seven fingers, down from my usual eight (pinky fingers are decorative), because the middle finger on my left hand is wrapped in multiple layers of gauze. Beneath the bandage, it now strongly resembles ET’s finger, only without the magical properties and with far more blood.
It’s attractive, is what I’m saying.
Fortunately this is a relatively recent development, because I had a wedding to attend at the weekend and one bobble-ended finger possibly in need of an amputation would never have gone with my dress. Unfortunately, I am now on a course of antibiotics, which is never ideal heading into the weekend.
A fortnight ago, my finger was caught in an unfortunate accident involving a toy and a tiny kitten claw. It was sliced clean along the part where the nail meets the skin, and it hurt, and I growled, and the kitten in question – Maya – looked at me and licked it tentatively as if to apologise.
Now I don’t know if you know this, but cat mouths are filthy.
This makes cat apology licks the mini Komodo Dragon bites of the pet world.
Over the next few days my finger struggled to sort itself out, but a week on I was at least able to paint my nails without any real pain. It seemed to be healing. Last Monday however, in a stroke of bad fortune and cat hyperactivity, Maya managed to catch the same finger in the exact same place with, presumably, the same claw that had done the damage in the first instance.
This time I let out more than a growl. This time, several expletives were uttered.
My finger developed its own unsettling heartbeat, and two days later it had swollen to a shiny plumpness. It started to turn a particularly unattractive shade of purple. A very ripe purple. Like an bruised aubergine (eggplant for the Americanos), or that grape that you leave til the end because you’re not positive it’s still edible.
I sent Scrubs occasional photographic finger updates (which I’m sure he more than thrilled to receive). Nothing like some light midday gore to remind you how much you love someone. That evening he arrived home with a prescription.
“You need to take antibiotics,” he said, as I gingerly wrapped a turquoise bandage dotted with Baby Looney Tunes characters around my fingertip. I nodded absent-mindedly.
The next morning I sent him another photo update.
“I don’t think I need antibiotics, it isn’t any worse.”
Scrubs wrote back, “Go on antibiotics.”
Two hours later, the purpling had intensified. I sent another photo update.
“Okay now it’s worse.”
Scrubs wrote back, “Go on antibiotics! x”
Have I mentioned Scrubs is a patient soul?
Once my fingernail started to look like it was lodged firmly in a questionably coloured bean-bag of skin, I finally took my prescription and got it filled. On the upside, the finger is now a lot less purple, a lot less swollen, and the risk of amputation is significantly less. On the downside, it’s Friday and I’m on antibiotics.
I’m off to read the pharmaceutical leaflet to find out if Germentin is compatible with the reckless consumption of White Russians…