The title of this blog tells you everything you need to know. I’m going to fill in the details.

Imagine – I’m washing up. The grater is in soapy water, with lots of food stuff stuck in the holes. Without thinking, I try to get it out with my fingers, pushing it round the horizontal base.

Ouch.

I feel the cut on my index finger open. And it gapes. Blood gushes. And gushes.

I know this isn’t a little nick. I make myself lie down on the floor and think what to do.

Hand in the air, tissue paper tightly wrapped round the sausage finger, blood in rivulets down my arm. I tell Alexa to give me an eight minute timer. The cut might congeal by then.

Ten minutes later, and several soggy paper towels, and it’s still bleeding, more than I’d like. Positives. It’s an open cut. It’s clean. The top isn’t severed, although it’s not nice.

I’m in shock. But I know what to do. I wait for the dizziness to pass. I’ll get a cup of tea later.

Time rolls on. The cut is congealing but when I take off the paper, it starts to bleed again. Lots.

I start the process again.

It takes a long time, but eventually I get three plasters on it and sit down quietly, drinking a cup of tea. I’ll be OK.

I can’t type now. I’ve sliced the index finger on my right hand. Of course it would be. I can’t press the keys. Never mind – I’ll take a couple of days off.

By the evening it’s started to hurt. I don’t mean a bit of discomfort. My whole hand is throbbing. I think sepsis. Amputation. I force myself to be sensible and go to bed.

Then it kicks in. It’s ridiculously painful. The finger, all of the fingers, the whole hand, the arm, throbbing. It makes no sense. Oh, and I have no painkillers in the house. No willow bark to chew. I lie there and groan a bit. It doesn’t help at all. It makes things worse.

I don’t want to go to A&E. I can manage. Besides which, they have serious cases to deal with, not a wimpy writer with a sore finger. But…

I can’t sleep at all. The pain comes in waves. On a scale of 0-10 it’s a nine and I’ve done childbirth twice. I imagine they next day, there will be no finger, I’ll never able to type again. I’m suddenly filled with so much admiration for anyone who learns to use a prosthetic. I spend the whole night rolling around.

Then at seven thirty I fall asleep.

The next day I creep about tentatively, trying to use the hand. It’s not great over the cooker, rising heat hurts. I can’t put it in hot water. I can’t use it normally.

I want to begin writing a novel next week. I have editing to do. What can I do but rest?

Then it comes to me, a magical moment. An opportunity.

Friends of mine are in Skye. Somone messages ‘we have your bed ready. Come up.’

I think of all the reasons why I shouldn’t go. Then I book tickets and I’m off. If I can’t write, I can think, walk, imagine, plan. Skye is where I’m heading.

I know the finger still hurts. And I’m behind with my schedule a bit. But sometimes life gives us lemons and we have to make a meringue.

So, Skye, here I come.

I’ll see you all in a week.xx