Never Trust a Butcher With a Plaster

Warning; long post/rant ahead! ⚠️

I like to think I’m a relatively normal person, except obviously for looking like a shaved yeti and having a forehead ridge on me like a council bus shelter. Other than that I do everything pretty much the same as the rest of the population; I put my socks on one at a time, I’ll easily work my through a full box of White Chocolate Coco Pops in one sitting and when I’m a bit poorly, I’ll take some medicine and get on with my life until the rubbish feeling dies away, trying not to bother those around me with my moans and groans while I get on with the very important business of being a bloody super bloke.

Sadly the wonderful Roobs does not fall into this same category, being one of the population endowed with the curse of severe Hypochondriasis. She can stub a toe against a doorframe and convince herself that she’s going to have to get the whole leg amputated from the hinge joint down just to stop all the inevitable blood clots from traveling up her shin bones and clogging up her pooping hole like it’s been jammed full of partly digested California raisins.

And my god you should see how much she panics when I give The Destroyer any more than two or three chokeslams onto the kitchen worktops. I try and reason with her about it, his eyesight usually comes back after a minute or two and he’s going into the shower anyway, so the vomit down his front won’t be there for long. But no, I’m seemingly ‘putting the boy at risk of death’, and ‘would you mind repeating that again Mr Taylor for the Police Officer’s notes’. Guh.

So you can imagine how things went not long before bedtime the other night when The Roobs told me she had sore armpits and felt a bit groggy. She didn’t seem to believe me when I said she was undoubtedly possessed by demons of some kind, and having recently watched both The Conjuring and The Conjuring 2, I felt suitably qualified to purge her of the evil armpit demigorgons that had infested her. Instead, she insisted on googling her symptoms to nail down what the problem was.

Now let me say this; The worst thing that happened to the world of the hypochondriac is the invention of the internet search engine. After a good hour or more of ‘Google-Fu’, she’d gone from having a mild viral infection to being on her deathbed from sepsis, leukemia and a sizeable dose of the Black Plague.

“OH SWEET LORD OF DARKNESS I CAN SEE A BRIGHT LIGHT! Scott? SCOTT WAKE UP OH GOD MAKE SURE MY BABIES REMEMBER ME AND DON’T LET THEM WATCH COMMANDO OR THE RUNNING MAN TILL THEY’RE AT LEAST TEN! OH SAVE ME SWEET JIMMY KRANKIE!!”

The Roobs had bolted straight up in bed, ranting and speaking in tongues about her forthcoming demise;
“AND YOU’LL NEED TO BUY FORMULA FOR MINI-ROOBS WHEN I’M GONE! OH, AND STERILISE THE BOTTLES FIRST YOU DIRTY HEATHEN BASTARD! OH MAN, IT’S THE END OF MY JOURNEY THROUGH THE MAJESTY OF LIFE I TELL YOU.”

After a lot of calming her down, (mostly using the soothing method of the double-pronged fingers used by Crocodile Dundee when he calmed the wild bull) I finally got her settled, peeled The Destroyer off the ceiling light and got us all cuddled back down to sleep…

“WHAT IF THEY NEED TO AMPUTATE MY ARMS OFF? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SCRATCH MY ARSE? SCOTT WAKE UP!! YOU’LL NEED TO ITCH MY BACK END WHEN THEY TAKE MY FUCKING ARMS AWAY!”
She’d bolted back awake, sending the room once more into a tornado of sleepy-eyed somersaults as both The Destroyer and I ended up on the floor in a heap next to the laundry baskets. After I’d unfolded myself from the foot of the bed, and a lot more soothing with promises of chocolate the next day, we all fell asleep with plans to call NHS 24 in the morning.

After a quick call and some discussion with the helpful staff on the phone, we had an appointment set for the out of hours Doctors at the Accident & Emergency department in Aberdeen. So after we all got showered and I took the razor to my head and face, we set off for the hospital after dumping the Destroyer with his Grandma.

Why I mention the razor is because I’d clearly cut a gouge in the back of my head and hadn’t noticed, and during the drive in it had leaked blood all down my cranium and my neck. Of course, the Roobs said not a thing about it, allowing me to sit in the A&E waiting room for nearly an hour, getting funny looks from those around me because I looked like I’d been hit in the back of the head with a cheese grater.

It wasn’t until we left the hospital after a diagnosis of a viral infection for The Roobs, did my wonderful wife tell me about my colorful head, and with a swift and vigorous rub-down with a wet wipe she managed to clean up the mess and successfully re-open the wound, so by the time we made it to see Lurch Monster at the Tilly Butcher, (61 Hayton Road, Aberdeen) , my head was fully caked again with a fresh flow of blood.

Now being a butcher, I assumed correctly that he would have a full complement of plasters available, and considering the awkward placement of the tiny 1cm cut, I asked that he stick it on for me.
“Aye, that’s nae going to do it-” said the massive cranium owning, award-winning sausage purveyor, “-I better stick another one on just to be safe”
“These aren’t too noticeable, are they?” I was worried that I’d look a bit silly whilst walking out of the shop.
“Not at all!! I even used the flesh coloured ones. You canna even notice they’re there..”

As you can see by the photo, it’s just lucky that he’s pretty and makes a fine batch of pies.

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