How arthritis made me a maniacal savage

stickywicket

Or, at least, a spud killer.

It had been a bad day. The morning saw me doing some brief (ha!) computer work for my local church. I do it every week. It's simple. This week I decided to put a line in to separate two sections. Oh the computer loved it! So much that it added two more of it's own free will. And then refused to delete any of them even when, in desperation, I tried deleting the whole section before it too. Result? I'd to start from scratch. This did not put me in the best of moods.

In the afternoon Mr SW went out. I was tired but, on the a-bit-here-and-a-bit-there principle, I decided to peel the spuds in advance for the evening meal. Butcher's sausages, cheesy mash and beans – the sort of instant heart attack meal which he loves. In my latest hospital absence he'd bought a big (2.5kg) bag of spuds and placed them on the low rack of the veggie rack which I struggle to reach. I managed to get both hands round one potato and tugged. And tugged. And rearranged my grip and tugged some more. Eventually I knew what was going to happen. It would come out but, being so heavy, all I could do was trap it between my trusty titanium knees. It did and I did. But it was far too heavy for me to lift and tantalisingly slowly, it headed south to the floor. I swear it glinted evilly at me as it went.

This was war.

I kicked the bag from the utility room into the kitchen, got my no 1 grabber, the one with a locking mechanism which means I can use both useless hands to lift it. I grabbed. It slid off. I tried again. This time it stayed on. I got the bag half-raised before the lock mechanism sprained. It was useless until Mr SW could jam it back. I got No2 grabber from the bedroom. The lockless one. No chance. And, by now, my failing THR was complaining loudly. That was when my violent side came to the fore.

I grabbed the bread knife, bent down and slashed at the bag. Several slashes later I'd made a hole big enough to insert a fair portion of grabber no 2 and use it simply as a lever. (“Whoa” yelled my THR. “And you can shut it ” I yelled, silently, back.) This would have worked perfectly if I'd had the hands and arms to hang on to the 2.5kg weight. I hadn't. So it went back to the floor to be roughed up with the bread knife again.

This time I made a hole big enough to enable me to kick out a spud. And another. And another. Now, how to pick them up with no 1 grabber disabled and no 2 grabber being unfit for weak hands' purpose. Enter, again, the bread knife. Coupled with the really useful feet that only arthritis can give ie ones that stick out permanently into the 10 to 2 position.

Using the knife as a croquet mallet / golf club / cricket bat (pick your own sport) I prodded a spud into the V of my feet. Then stabbed at it with the knife. It worked. It stuck. I raised the knife, removed the spud and turned to my next victim. Not every stab worked first time and some came dangerously close to enacting some DIY surgery on my legs and feet but, when you're a homicidal maniac, such things are trivial.

I picked up 4 spuds and was peeling them when Mr SW returned early (“What's going on here? You having fun?” He'll never know how close he came to being next in line for the bread knife). I then chopped the spuds into the pan of water and we had a brew. Later, to show them that we all have a touch of the Hannibal Lecters, I boiled them, added the grated cheese with some milk and then I / we ate them with the bangers and beans. And a glass of wine. Serves 'em right. You don't mess with an arthritic maniac.

dibdab

SW you made me laugh, thank you!!!!!! I really needed a smile-I'm just contemplating attacking a heap of veggies for tea-our son is coming over to watch rugby and shout at the TV with the OH- but my knuckles are properly sore and like you I plan to do a bit at a time. Maybe I'll try the kick it and stab it method so graphically described.

Airwave!

Nice one Stivky! Love to see your receipe book, haha!

dreamdaisy

That's what I like about you, no swooning with the back of your hand to your forehead, no bleating, no falling to your replacement knees shaking your fist at the sky shouting 'Why? Why me? It isn't fair!'. You don't opt for third-rate dramatic hysterics, your choice is to find a solution.

I now have visions of you 'waddling' round your kitchen with a cache of potatoes carefully herded between your feet . . . nestling down over them to keep them warm . . . . they're not eggs my lovely, they're not going to hatch, you do know that don't you? DD

mig

Just had a mental image of our sticky as a penguin
If anyone can find a way its our sticky.

stickywicket

dibdab - I hope the veggie prep went well. When the family descend I can spend half a day prepping a bit at a time. It leaves me with enough energy to enjoy the company. I always feel a laugh is better than a pill

airwave - I rarely use one. What I haven't learnt by now can stay unlearned.

DD - :oops: I was born in Huddersfield. Swooning wasn't allowed Anyone bleating got shoved onto the moors with the rest of the sheep 8)

Thank God potatoes don't hatch It was hard enough pcking up what I'd dropped. Can't have 'em breeding all over the kitchen.

mig - I might have a few penguin genes Mr SW reckons I'm an eskimo as I'm the one who doesn't feel cold and he's the one who does. I certainly do a good penguin shuffle.