Here’s the story of bad luck, the recovery position, and an armpit.
At what point in being put into the recovery position do you tell the person doing it that they’re really hurting your shoulder? That was the dilemma that faced me this week. One could argue that needing to be put into a recovery position is something of a dilemma, but this was not the case. Someone was practising that technique on me. It’s remarkable that that was the case considering how injury prone I am.
I’ve been to these first aid courses before. They make you learn the basics in school, except I kept being shouted at for not doing it properly. Or learning from my mistakes. In fact, every time I tried anew, I seemed to make things worse. One time, it got so bad the instructor yelled at me. “If you’d have done that in real life, he’d be dead!” What a thing to tell a nine-year-old. Most kids that age would just ring an ambulance. But he persisted. “What would you have done then, eh? If you had killed him?” Well, I’d probably buy his widow some flowers.
A sofa landed on my foot. I don’t know if you’re aware of how heavy a sofa is, but they’re really heavy. Dad and I were trying to get it out of the front door. We tried it every which way. Turned it over. Knocked over several items, included vases. Not to worry. We were getting a new carpet on Thursday. It’s when we dropped it causing it to fall through a glass table that things got interesting.
Its path of destruction continued as it nearly put a hole in our flimsy wooden walls. It got caught on something causing the fabric to tear. And then my foot got caught under it. In the mêlée, dad dropped his end causing the sofa to lurch forward. And by ‘forward’, I mean ‘in my general direction’. I fell over and landed on a big pile of comfy cushions, and managed to release my foot at the same time. But the pile of cushions was awfully large and I, inevitably, rolled off them and onto the floor.
We got it out eventually. Severely wounded. We had to swing it around in the garden so we could get it into the garage, as it was facing the wrong way. I fell over again. On the slippy grass. Mother was in tears and not much help. Dad had sat on the sofa’s edge seemingly having a heart attack. Also in tears.
Finally, the last mile, straight into the garage. A little too quickly. You see, our garage is full of stuff. Including a sofa we’d already removed last week, to much less fanfare, I hasten to add. He fell over that sofa backwards as the other sofa landed on top of him, trapping him in luxurious comfort. Helping someone whilst laughing is difficult. Helping someone whilst crippled on the floor with that kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt and paralyzes you like a statue, is impossible.
He got out unscathed. Well, that’s a lie, but saying ‘unscathed’ should comfort you, dear readers.
Pancakes. They tasted awful. How awful was the taste? Imagine a severely overweight man had somehow run a marathon. Then, afterwards, imagine licking his armpit. Count yourself lucky I said armpit.
Prepping the house for carpet time. That’s laying a new carpet, for the unprofessionals. Not a new carpet laying rapper. We were pulling up carpet and underlay left, right and centre. Falling over its huge lumps. The house full of carpet. It weighed a ton. We had to cram it into what space we had left in the already heaving garage. This was a challenge.
It was decided the best solution was to put me in the garage so I could drag the carpet whilst dad pushed. I was chosen because I am thin. I must point out that I wasn’t involved in the discussion that concluded I should do this. But I obliged. You can probably see where this is going.
I lost my slippers. About half way in. Which left me standing on a cold, concrete, stony floor. My voice was lost in the canyons of crap that surrounded me. Dad didn’t hear me yell ‘stop’ and decided to keep pushing and proceeded to bury me. Seriously. I couldn’t move. And nobody could get to me.
I was soon contemplating life under the carpet. Wondering how long I could survive, thoughts fresh in my mind that my predicament may be revenge on dad’s part. I was thirsty. So thirsty. I looked around. I found it incredible in that moment how delicious a bottle of turpentine looked.
I managed to wriggle free. I found myself on the top of a huge, long roll of carpet. Crawling on my hands and knees, I started my journey to the garage door. In typical fashion, the roll gave way sending me flying into a wall. I really wasn’t having any luck. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if, when I die, they’ll rename ‘bad luck’ as ‘Alan Syndrome’.
The carpet was laid. After all the kerfuffle. Of course, before it was laid, the television stand fell over as it was being moved. Of course the eight-year-old glass top fell off and somehow fell four feet onto concrete without smashing. Of course dad got hurt (yet again) multiple times, often accompanied with getting stuck.
Of course, after it was laid, it took me hours to figure out where all the blasted wiring for all the gizmos went behind the television. Of course moving all the heavy furniture resulted in a sandwich effect consisting of a large unit, a wall and me. But crucially, I managed to end the week without falling over. Which is incredible when you think about it.
Yes, I’ve had a hectic week. I’m hoping next week will be trouble free. In fact, I’m positive it will be a blast. Think positive in life and you might not fall over so much. Doubt it. I’ll probably fall into a hole and will never be seen again, leaving the world behind with nothing to show for it except the newly named Alan Syndrome. Which will probably be misconstrued as a spelling mistake.
An unknown author once said: “I don’t understand why Cupid was chosen to represent Valentine’s Day. When I think about romance, the last thing on my mind is a short, chubby toddler coming at me with a weapon”.
Peace Out :|:
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