This is the first post of my second blog on the third night of having a hotdog instead of a thumb. Am writing this whilst soaking said thumb in cold water and then blowing on it. This is doing very little to alter the fact that since I poured boiling water over it at 4am on Sunday morning, it has been more akin to a partially-cooked sausage than my familiar digit. I was trying to make a hot water bottle, in the dark, under the influence. I woke up the next morning with the hot water bottle on the floor, and a wet patch on my pillow to whence the hand-bandage had migrated.
I am fairly sure this was Fate punishing me because I had been so chary with the hand mere hours earlier, when someone tried to hold it.
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