I decided to start writing this blog the night my mum dropped a knife through her foot. It seemed as good a time as any – there was surprise, then shock, then drama.
So much blood that before I managed to leap to action and choose an appropriate tea towel-tourniquet (the first one was too fluffy – towelling didn’t seem appropriate, nor did florals) I thought she’d spilt a big glass of Pinot.
By the time I’d settled on a tea towel (a slightly worn one with a faded picture of a grinning crocodile, wearing a cork-hat and holding a beer) a chair had been proffered, and my mother, my inimitable mother – Tutti is her name – (rhymes with fruity) was reclining rather glamorously, glass of wine in hand, leaking blood and laughing about the combination of freak-accident and klutzy-capability. I wrapped the tea towel around her foot, mopped up the dark oozing stickiness off the floor with another (pale pink, insect-print, very absorbent) and despite feeling ever so slightly like a Crime Scene Investigator, marvelled at my iron stomach. Not a single, squeamish quiver.
Tutti continued laughing, and despite feeling ever so slightly apprehensive (should she go to the hospital? Would she need stitches?) I decided to laugh along. You see, stabbing herself, was just another freak incident in a very busy year which saw her:
a) diagnosed with a grade three breast cancer
b) break her right toe, when she stumbled and stubbed it at Sculpture by the Sea
c) fracture her left wrist, in Jervis Bay, while being typically silly – and slipping over on a slippery rock, next to a sign that said ‘Caution, slippery rocks’
d) fall over while walk-texting and fracturing her right wrist (though, typically, she continued on her way and drank her destination coffee before going to hospital, and
e) Knock a heavy, steel knife off the kitchen counter, and stab herself through the left foot – a neat, deep slice above her pinky and fourth toe. The grand finale, surely. I told her she was an attention seeker and we laughed some more.
There was lots of food and wine, and laughter that night – the bleeding continued, but slowly. It didn’t seem like life or death, and it wasn’t. As an anxiety-prone, occasional hypochondriac, I appreciate her consistent disinterest in catastrophising. My mother lives and breathes the motto: ‘If it’s the worst thing that ever happens to me, I’ll be lucky.” And that’s exactly what she said. If she woke up one morning and had magically, disturbingly, metamorphosed into a cat, she would probably meow the same thing.
The conclusion to this story is that if I had started my blog the night my mum dropped a knife through her foot, as I had so earnestly intended, then I would already have two, maybe three months of blogging under my belt. Who knows the stories I would have regaled you with by now. But I never do things when I should. I am like a slightly-tortured-but-very-chirpy, creative procrastinator (I’m creative, and I procrastinate – I don’t necessarily think of creative ways to procrastinate – though sometimes there’s that too). But I got home from work tonight, and just decided to start typing. Something I do all day. I’m a writer by trade.
It occurred to me that I haven’t introduced myself properly yet, but I will, in good time. I don’t yet know where this blog is headed, but I began to feel like I wanted to do more than just write for work (much as I enjoy my work). I want to write about life. Mine, yours, my rescue-dog Tiggy’s, my lovely husband’s, my spiritually-enlightened fluffy-haired father’s, my eccentric, impressive, cancer-kicking mother’s, my quirky, talented fashion-designer sister’s… More on them later. What adventures shall we have here? The possibilities are endless. But I hope you will find it interesting, and I look forward to you joining me again, soon.