Handy
I’ve a sore hand. How did I get it, I don’t hear you ask - well, I’ll tell you.
On Sunday, the family and I went for a walk around Milngavie Reservoir. The boy brought his bike.
Anyway, the council are carrying out work there - building some sort of new filtration plant. This means that some of the pathways are blocked with pipes etc and to carry through our walk in the direction we wanted to go, we had to walk up some grassy banks. The boy found this difficult on his bike, so I told him to get off and I would show him how. I took a good run up to the bank and hit it all guns blazing. I heard a crack as the handlebars smashed down on my right hand. After spitting out a chunk of the grassy bank, I said, “I’m ok!” and we carried on with our walk.
My hand gradually became sorer and sorer and we spent nearly three hours in casualty on Sunday evening.
Next week I’m going to show him how to skateboard down a steep hill…
Sore hand…
BMX Bandit? Aye… right, drinker…
You have a sore hand and it’s all to do with some Jackass-style BMX-banditry. Of course…
We believe you!
Now now, Kenny!
Today I was interviewing an asylum seeker for a mini documentary I am making (details to follow). When I went in to her house, her husband grabbed my hand in a very firm handshake… jeez it was sair! I didn’t want to say anything - what would someone say if they shook your hand and you exclaimed with pain… I had to endure the same thing going out again. Agony (though their fantastic Algerian tea made up for it)!