On Bagels and Broken Bits.

My finger feels much, much better today. It's still sore to bend, but the swelling has gone a whole lot and unless I poke and prod it, it's not even all that noticeable. (Of course, you can bet your bottom dollar that I have been poking it every so often just to see if it still hurts, because I am a very clever wee person, you know. And still a wimp.)

A few people were wondering just how many fingers I've broken in the past and a quick search informed me that I hadn't actually blogged about it before. I went through a very accident prone stage when I was younger - thankfully it was all but finished by the time I hit high school. I remember many a kicked toe that felt as though it were broken, but avoided the doctors for those ones because, well, they were toes.

I vaguely recall an ankle injury of some sort, because I can still see myself on crutches and remember how mortifying it was to have to hike up the demountable stairs in primary school. Not sure if it was a break, or just some sort of a sprain.

The worst culprits were my wrists, and I managed a fair few fractures in my time. Sadly most were on my left hand, so I didn't even get out of doing school work - terrible. As a result, to this day I have the weakest wrists in the world. (I can't even do a girly-style push up on them, just ask Jason. He is disgusted by this fact.)

I think the first time I broke a bone was falling over whilst roller skating out on the street, I remember trying to awkwardly shuffle home without moving my arm too much because it really, really hurt! I broke that wrist several more times, with the fractures tending to be around the same place. I actually didn't mind wearing the cast.

The broken wrist I remember most clearly was one of the last ones, though. I was outside bouncing a basketball with a friend, and we were just bouncing and catching the ball back and forth. I caught the ball with both hands at chest level, and felt the familiar pain; straight away, I knew what had happened. I recall wandering inside to talk to mum and telling her that we needed to go to the doctor, that my wrist was broken. I'm fairly sure she was watching television, but whatever it was she was doing, she was not impressed to be interrupted by me and told me it couldn't possibly be broken, I'd probably just jarred it. I insisted, and she eventually dragged me to the medical centre: one hairline fracture and casted arm later, I think she admitted defeat.

The fingers I've broken have been my pinkies, and they're both crooked as a result of it. I remember playing volleyball at school, and hitting the ball at an awkward angle which hurt like crazy. Turned out that my finger was broken in two places; the doctor had to inject it with numbing anaesthetic in six different spots, and then physically crack both knuckles back into place. Anyone who meets me, feel free to take a look at the wonky pinky finger on my right hand, and see what a dodgy job he did.

Hopefully my accident prone stage is over now ... as of yesterday, anyway.

And to finish off in a completely random fashion, I've discovered a new favourite snack: nutella covered bagels. Heaven! How have I never enjoyed these before?