I have read that many injuries around the home are caused by personal negligence. Indeed I recall that 60% of all A& E consultations are routed in incidents involving a domestic fridge. It seems we are less careful with ourselves than sense dictates.
I was busy hammering nails into a horse paddock fence one afternoon in mid summer. One of Jo’s horses used a particular rail as a scratcher and in time the friction had caused a rail to come free. My attempts to hammer the offending piece of wood back in place went wrong as I mishit the nail bending it. The hook bit on the back of the hammer engaged I gave a mighty pull. Out shot the nail but unfortunately the force of the hammer was such that it only stopped when it connected with my left eyebrow. ‘Damm’! A moments pause then the worst thing. A drop of blood then a stream and soon, because that part of the body is loaded with blood vessels , a torrent of the stuff. I was soon looking like a war victim and I headed for the house bleating ‘Liz’. She gulped but did not panic, reached into the deep freeze and produced a bag of peas and placed it firmly over the wound before wrapping my head in a turban.
At the local A& E I was inspected and immediately congratulated on my ‘quick thinking’. ‘Self hammering are way more common that you might think’ the nurse said. The consequence of the ice pack was such that I was offered two alternatives. A visit to Exeter for the attention of a plastic surgeon or else glue. I opted for the latter and today you have to look closely to see the wound.
Wind the clock forward 3 years and I was about to set off to Sweden in my VW Transporter on an athletic adventure. For the first time ever in my life for some reason I chose to check my wheel bolts. 3 wheels done I approached the last one. The wrench on the bolt I detected a small bit of give. ‘Thank goodness’ I mused ‘that could have been nasty’. A muscular twist of the wrench and it slipped, coming off the wheel nut and hitting me square in the right eyebrow. Yes you know the drill. Blood everywhere, “Liz”? the bag of peas.
I arrived at The Honiton A&E just as it was opening at about 8:30 am I seem to remember. The nurse in charge looked at my eye and offered me exactly the same treatment choices. Glue was again ordered but she asked for a pause as she needed to log on and access my records. A few moments later she returned almost gleeful. ‘We see a lot of ‘self hammering’ she said but this is the first time I have ever seen anyone on the anniversary of a previous incident. Three years to the day, first my left, then my right. I was unsure whether to laugh or be ashamed. I was asked a whole series of questions that I suspect were geared to establishing my state of mind. The right scar is all but invisible too.
In the past I had sought the services of a plastic surgeon in fact. I was in Scotland on a business trip. I was escorting The Finance Director of William Morrisson Supermarkets around some of the major Investing Institutions in Glasgow. My company was Morrisons officials agent in the city and this sort of thing goes on all the time. The largest shareholders get a ‘one on one’ and the smaller ones share the executives time via a lunch. I was effectively a ‘bag carrier’ making introductions and hosting the lunch and briefing the Finance Director on the various clients he would meet.
Arriving at Glasgow airport it was a cold drizzle filled murky day. A Black cab approached the rank. I was temporarily distracted and as I was the passenger opened the cab door whilst it was still moving and hit me square in the face. My lower lip started to produce blood-not as bad as eyes. The Glaswegian Taxi driver had no sympathiey and laughed at my plight. ‘Pour some after shave in it’ he said ‘that will dry it up’. I stopped in the city centre with around 15 minutes to go to my rendezvous with the Finance director. I entered a Boots and the lady behind the counter winced at the site of my by now ‘hanging lip’ “you need stitcha’s” (glasgow accent) she said. I opted instead for a large plaster which covered my lip and most of my chin. Whilst this was useful as a shield so as not to offend the squeamish it did inhibit communication. ‘Dud munin mita Kelto I am afwaayed i av Kurt me mowf’ was my introduction to the important man. I got through the meetings as I knew all of the people but lunch was a real struggle. First of all a formal introduction and the obligation for me to make a speech outlining just how valued a corporate client Morrisons were to my firm. Eating and drinking were a no go of course. Someone later told me I looked and sounded like a ventriloquists dummy. A bad one. ‘Tant u vewy much for cumin’ was my departing announcement. I shook the hand of the director and headed off into the Glasgow late afternoon as it was then.
I took stock as my plane was at six o’clock and I had a school parents evening scheduled in which I had promised to join Liz for the last part of the proceedings. All parents feel a strong obligation to show their faces at such event even though in their heart of hearts they know they are being told a pack of lies.
I rang my good friend Ian Lynn who was a senior man at a firm called Murray Johnstone. ‘Stay were you are’ was his order. Shortly his Range Rover rolled up. He laughed at me and spent the next minutes telling me what an idiot I was as he drove. He swept into the driveway of a large house on the outskirts of Glasgow. The sign BUPA was on the gate. Hurrying me to the reception desk he demanded to know if there was anyone who could fix ‘this idiots lip”?
We were sent to the third floor and got immediate entrance to a large surgery. A man steeped out of a side office greeted me warmly and announced his credentials. Checking later I discovered this was Scotland’s leading plastic surgeon., or top three for sure. He placed me in chair, illuminated my face with a bright light and placed a huge magnifying glass over my face. This magnifying glass was obviously used to ensure his delicate skills were performed with the maximum of precision. The reverse of that facility was my ability to scrutinise, in minute detail, the inner hair follicles of the man’s nose. It was all very weird. he told me he had inserted around 14 stitches both sub cutaneous and surface. The finished job was excellent such that I no longer even needed a plaster. Ian had watched the whole thing and whilst the surgeon had done his work Ian engaged him in light hearted banter. The surgeon seemed to enjoy the whole thing and shook my hand firmly when he was done. The anaesthetic in my lip made talking even more difficult. ‘Ow mooch du i ow oo” ? I said. He beamed and in that lovely accent, that hails from Edinburgh not Glasgow, he said ‘no worries that one is on me, I hope you catch your plane’. I did thanks to Ian.
The following morning I was something of a hero much to my deep embarrassment. There used to be, probably still is, a gossip column in the Daily Telegraph. The headline was something like. ‘Hero Elliott carries on despite a serious injury’.
Tales of a Life Well Lived 