As
some of you will be aware, a close friend of mine recently
shattered his spine in an awkward fall from Grace. If it weren't
for the actions of one brave, beautiful fool of a nurse, he might
still be laying prune and prostate, his lower back seeping blood
and spinal fluid all over the orange hospital sheets.
Aforementioned student nurse saw the leaky hole in him and
administered her own distinct form of healing; she stuck a
plaster on him. Within two and a half hours he had fully regained
almost none of the feeling in his legs. Within three hours he had
fully regained his sense of decorum. Within eight hours he was
asleep. Within twelve hours he was awake with a strange feeling
of moral bankruptcy. Eight minutes after this his legs were fully
functioning, and contrary to medical expectation his spine had
healed. Upon checking out of the hospital he made his way up Mane
Street and was hit by a runaway train (who knew they still
existed, least of all within 17 kilometres of the nearest railway
line?) The hospital refused to readmit him in order to avoid
allegations of operating a revolving door policy, and he bled to
death out of his oversized novelty tongue.
All
of which is very sad, but if he didn't die that day, he would
have died the day after when his wife had booked the hitman. He
had a good innings. He also inspired me to become a wandering
minstrel paramedic, armed only with a box of plasters, adorned
with popular cartoon characters of the ages. (I didn't sing, of
course; that's not my bag, man. I mention the minstrel element
only to impress upon you the nature of my cause: wandering
paramedics aren't de rigueur, but wandering minstrels are. I hope
that clears up any confusion, and if it happens to clear up that
awful little spotty bit on your left arse cheek, then I claim
full responsibility tambien). The time had come for me to seek
out pain and destruction (physical) and fix it.
The
opportunity to weave my magic, or more accurately the magic of
plasters, presented itself almost immediately. No sooner had I
stuck the stickers on my plaster box than there was a big crash,
so reminiscent of a car crash that it could only be a car crash.
It was a car crash. I used one plaster (Mighty Mouse) on a
leaking fuel hose, which saved them all a quick and painless
death. There was no need to call the real paramedics, or firemen
to cut them out, or anything like that; I had everything under
control. Working away at the tangled lump of metal trapping them
in the cars with a penknife was slow work, but not really of any
concern to me: even if they died (and they all did, painfully,
within six hours of my starting to cut them free), the plasters
would work their magic, and they'd be back on their feet in no
time. Well we all make mistakes, right? The important thing to do
is learn from them. I made a note in my little First Aider's
Handbook that whilst plasters can cure paralysis, they are
significantly less useful in cases where resurrection is
required.
My
escapologist always advised me to start small, so again I set off
wandering, minstrel in hand. Words were said, we fell out, I went
back and grabbed my box of plasters and First Aider's Handbook.
On my way I passed about eight or nine car crashes (technically
one of them was a smash; whether crash is inclusive of smash or
not is a whole nother story altogether), but my escapologist's
words were still ringing in my ears like a tinnital sponge. I
walked on by. My legs were getting rather weary after all this
walking - I'm not the fit young thing I make myself out to be,
and that box of plasters was mighty heavy. The time had come to
stop off and reacquaint myself with the paranoid world of
restaurants. Enter. Sit. Order. Wait. Eat. Observe chef slice
into finger with knife. Stick plaster on. Get bored (in many
ways). Quit my career as saviour whilst batting 0.500. Tell y'all
about it.