An an epic battle occurred in my household this week, something akin to Rhonda Rousey taking a beating from Holly Holmes. I was the one who ended up worse for wear. My worthy opponent was left unscathed.
Let me set the scene……
I had come home from a very long nightshift, to find my son had cleaned the house! That in itself was a wonder, I thought the heavens would open and a choir of angels would sing Hallelujah! The dishes were done, the bedrooms and living rooms tidied, the floors vacuumed. I was in complete shock. I knew he’d done it to get his pocket money, but usually that’s not enough incentive do it, obviously he’s completely skint. After singing his praises, and transferring the aforementioned money into his bank account, I took the boys to school. Upon my return, I slipped off my Birkenstocks, cracked a cold Coke Zero and cooked my self some toast.
With tomato on toast and a Coke Zero in hands, I made my to my very much loved couch. A few steps from my destination, I slipped on what I later realised was spray and wipe which my son had used to clean up his spilt coco pops and milk, on the tiles. Instead of attempting to break my fall with my hands, like a normal person, I instinctively tried to save my Coke and toast (you may now realise how I prioritise my food over my own welfare) I successfully saved both toast and Coke, whilst face crashed into the arm of my beloved couch. It may have brought a tear to my eye at the time, but wasn’t overly painful. So I sat myself down with feet up and enjoyed my breakfast prior to getting to bed, in child free peace.
Upon waking I realised my eye was sore. I attributed it to my being run down and sleep deprived from nightshift and I thought I had developed a sty in my eye. I shrugged it off and pottered around the house preparing dinner, ironing my uniform etc before hitting the shower to get ready for work. It was until I was in the bathroom that I saw what was causing my eye to be sore….. I had a black eye! It looked hideous, just on my right side underneath my eye, but hideous all the same. I thought about attempting to hide it, but after consulting my Facebook family, I owned it and walked into work as if I’d lost a fight to a worthy opponent.
My colleagues took great delight in regaling stories of my foray into UFC cage fighting, to anyone that would enquire about my injuries. My patients stole awkward glances at me, obviously thinking I was a victim of domestic abuse, until I explained my woeful story, luckily it gave them all a laugh. (I don’t think anyone really appreciates the lengths I go to, to make my patients laugh)