“Getting Plastered”

It’s been a lovely week, the weather has been good and I have been out in the garden catching up on all the weeding, pruning, tying back and pottering.   These are the constant everyday challenges of the cottage gardener.

It is good exercise and not generally a hazardous occupation.   Just a few scratches from the thorns on the roses.   No need to call out the air ambulance!

Although, after a few days your hands and arms do look a bit like you have been in a serious fight with a rabid animal that stalks the garden jungle.   In my childhood days I would have got a sweet for the injuries sustained in my battles in the garden.   Still, the wounds heal over with crisp dark scabs after a day or two.

Then, like all little boys, you can’t resist picking off the scabs.   That’s where my story begins………

I am off to a business meeting – no more scruffy garden clothes – today is a day for my suit and a freshly pressed clean white shirt.   Washed, shaved and about to get dressed, I notice one last time I remaining scab on my arm.   Nobody would see it under my shirt sleeve, but the little boy in me can’t resist.

I pick off the scab like it is the last chocolate in the box.   Surprise, surprise it starts to bleed.   Just a drop at first, but enough to mark my clean white shirt, then more of a raging torrent.   At this rate I will soon look like a returning war hero.   Not quite the appearance I want at my business meeting.

I go looking for a plaster.   We have a house full of plasters.   Boxes of them everywhere, but nowhere when you’re in a hurry.   The first box I find is a Sainsbury’s washproof dressing strip.   Ideal if you want to wrap yourself in 30 feet of continuous plaster like an Egyptian Mummy.   But useless if you can’t find a pair of scissors!

So I hunt down another box in the kitchen cupboard leaving a few drops of blood in a trail behind me.   The forensic team will have no trouble finding out what happened if I don’t survive.   The box I find is Marks and Spencer who usually can be relied on for good quality, but not for plasters evidently.   Each individual plaster is wrapped in an outer paper protective cover designed to stop people getting into it.   At least the outer cover works, especially when you only have one useful arm.   I give up on M & S before I bleed to death.


At last, I find the brand leader – Elastoplast.   A new box full of “water-resistant plasters with non-stick pads” which seems a bit of a contradiction.   But still I wrench open the box, although I have to use my bloody hand so the box now looks as if it has been in an accident.   Inside the plasters are just like the M & S ones, all double wrapped, hermetically sealed, water-resistant, childproof, adultproof.   No safecracker has even been able to break into them – they will probably be around and unused for the next thousand years!

I finally resort to every shaver’s tried and tested solution…….a piece of toilet paper stuck to the wound soon dries it up.   Then all you have to do is put all the boxes of unused plasters away, clean the blood off the carpet and


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4 Responses to “Getting Plastered”

  1. earnestern says:

    … and if you do get into the damn things they never actually stick these days!

  2. well hush my mouth! do I need a plaster over my gapping ‘gob’ to stop my utterings of sheer drivel? But never mind John is here, with food for thought, and an image to behold, as he speaks his piece at this important business meeting.
    I wonder as he ducked and dived, and snipped here and there with those pruning shears, if dear john ever talked back to those delicate perfumed flowers of the garden, as he selected blooms for his loved one, and old/last years growths for the compost heap/bonfire.
    Question is John a man or a mouse? does he speak ‘anglo saxon to those barbs / thorns on the rose bushes and blackberry, plants, or is it all platitudes a vicar would be proud of as he rearranges his? Gods arrangements in his own garden, and gives the plants encouragement to go forth and multipy, and give one pleasure in these later summer evenings.
    Well hush my mouth as an ex seagoing engineer I speak tripe, and have the knowledge and mind of a flea? : However like John I hope you all hop about and wonder how I am packaged, in my foil and clean cling film wrap..
    This message is double wrapped like those ‘BOG rolls’ in packs which when one is desperate, one wishes for a ‘swans neck, as an old friend of my mother used to say?
    WEll hush my mouth? what say you???
    By the way I need a rather large elsterplast over my mouth, rather more a bandage, with a lint pad to bit on to keep me quiet, more wrappings and difficuties, but a bit of eye candy in the shape of a nurse is most welcome, as this is applied!

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