There was a knock at the door. I ignored it. It’s my door. S’up?
There were more knocks. Knocks that refused to be ignored. There’s somebody at the door then..
I called to Wifey who seemed to have forgotten our system? Our system is pretty straightforward for heavens sake. Let’s go over it one more time.
If there is a knock at the door, my job is to ignore it, no matter how close I am to it. A brazen ignore. A visible ignore if the blinds are open. If I am not expecting you, I will not answer the door to you. Even if you can see me. Don’t expect me to dance for you.
My wife’s job is the yin to my yang. She is to assume that I will answer it, because I am sat right next to it for heavens sake, but then remember by the second or third knock that I am in fact an a-hole who refuses to answer the door. She is then required to run from wherever she is in the house before whoever it is out there leaves. Usually whilst confirming that I am an a-hole. The circle of life.
The system has been devised over many years and works well. Until the other night when I relented and answered the door. This was a mistake. The subsequent events have become a thing of infamy in my local neighbourhood.
Wifey…there’s somebody at the door…. WIFEY.
It appeared by the third knock that Wifey was free-styling. Chaos.
Normally I would insist on serious negotiation and re-drafting before tweaking a system I have devised and implemented, but, when the mother of your children retorts to the repeated shouting of her name with a frantic ‘I AM NAKED’ a real man knows when it’s time to step up to the plate and do his bit.
And so it came to pass that at 8.30pm on a Summer’s evening I answered the door wearing only my underpants and a sleeveless muscle top to my neighbour’s teenage daughter. (I do not have the muscles, just the top).
Now, I don’t know who I was expecting to be on the other side of the door, but I wasn’t expecting her? We both seemed shocked to see each other, which is ridiculous on her part because she came a knocking? Kids. She probably expected Wifey? Or an appropriately dressed adult. S’up with that?
As she apologised for disturbing me and began to account for her presence, I was suddenly forced to ask myself two very important questions.
1. Are the buttons on these boxer shorts fastened?
2. Can I check my buttons whilst retaining eye contact or will it appear as if I am fondling myself?
It is a very strange experience seriously contemplating what a certain part of your body is up to, without actually looking at it. Try it now. Focus on your foot without looking at it. I mean really focus on it. Block out all thoughts apart from the feeling of your foot. It’s whereabouts. It’s position. Now. I ask you. Is your sock actually on? Could, in actual fact, your sock be off? Could you inadvertently be foot flashing? I just Derren Brown’d your ass.
Anyhoo it’s an irrelevance, because as I ushered Miss Neighbour into the house to administer the First Aid she had come to request, I was able to confirm that all was well in the penis department via a discreet look and tug.
To get you quickly up to speed:
- Miss Neighbour has parents
- Those parents were on holiday
- Wifey and I were the ‘emergency contacts’
- Wifey was in the altogether doing GOD KNOWS WHAT
Miss neighbour was presenting with a significant cut to her left hand. As part of the triage service I was now performing in my lounge, she did tell me how the injury had come about, but to be honest I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy trying to stave of a mini heart attack from being so far out of my comfort zone, that I was not sure I could ever find my way back. I was in a world of pain.
I did muster the gumption to examine the patient’s hand carefully, under the light. I said some words. I made some sounds. I came to the conclusion that WIFEY NEEDED TO HURRY UP AND PUT SOME ******* CLOTHES ON.
After some stilted conversation and uncomfortable body contact, Miss Neighbour and I were both in agreement that stitches would not be required in this instance, and that the patient required nothing more than a bandage and couple of paracetamol. Paracetamol I could do, and after supplying the patient the meds, I ran upstairs to kick down the bathroom door and beat my wife to death.
There’s somebody at the bathroom door – WIFEY
After a grumpy exchange in the bathroom (whispered of course) Wifey furnished me with a dusty bandage that she had dug out of the medicine drawer. It transpires that she could hear the events unfolding downstairs as she sat lathering her nudity in a quart of coconut butter and so had a heads-up vis-a-vis the bandage. If the woman had not being so god damn slippery I’d have throttled her right there and then for making me do this.
I begged Wifey to come downstairs and take over, begged her, but she refused. insistent that her body had not yet reached total saturation point. Which is ridiculous. I have never before seen such an overtly moisturised woman. She was virtually a fluid. Sitting there with a faux innocent look on her shiny, shiny face, she wished me well and ushered me back downstairs to face my own personal hell. I think she was enjoying my pain.
This is where it gets really weird.
Back down stairs I brought the patient into the kitchen, where the light is better you know. My brother-in-law is an actor in Doctors. I can do this. I took the patient’s hand and examined it once more. To be honest, I didn’t really think she needed a bandage, but that’s what she’d asked for and at this juncture I’d have amputated her arm, just to get my life back on track and bring my heart rate down.
So I channelled the spirit of Quincy and commenced. I dabbed and wiped. I investigated. I enquired and I reassured. So far, so agonisingly uncomfortable.
I opened the bandage packet with my teeth while holding a dressing over the cut on her hand. With one end of the bandage in my teeth, I unrolled it from the other end with my free hand. When it was completely unrolled, the patient and I looked at each other. Well, she looked at me. I looked straight through her and pictured my Wife’s graveside and what I would tell the children. Stretched out between my teeth and my left hand were a pair of disposable maternity knickers.
With the slight of hand of Paul Daniels and the weirdo of David Blaine, I had produced a pair of paper pants out of thin air. ALAKAZAM. And for my next trick I will saw my ****** wife in half with a blunt spoon.
At this point the tension left me. I had gone through so much pain that I had done a full circle and had ended up at ‘meh’. I asked the patient if she needed any pants while she was here and I laughed. I really laughed. She laughed too. I am not sure though if she found it funny, or whether she was laughing to avoid the possibility of me murdering her and eating her spleen?
I shouted up to Wifey to tell her what she had brought to pass with her irresponsible First Aid supply and excessive moisturising. She started laughing. Hysterically. She managed to drag her oily hystericalising ass downstairs at this point, so that she and Miss Neighbour could howl. HOWL. They laughed and laughed and LAUGHED. I poured whisky and left them to it. Cowbags.
When the patient finally left, she did so with a plaster. A PLASTER. I could have done a ******* plaster. I can’t help but feel I have been done up like a kipper.
Miss Neighbour’s parents have returned from their holiday and whilst I have not seen them personally, Wifey has. It would appear that my first aid magic show is the talk of the town. Maximus embarrasino. Yesterday I walked past the neighbour of my neighbour and said hello. He laughed at me and shook his head. He had heard of me. I am becoming folklore.
THIS. IS. WHY. I. DO. NOT. ANSWER. THE. DOOR.
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