Life is sent to try us, as somebody quite wise but probably dead so not that bothered now, once said.
There are the big things (life, death, world peace, rubbish coffee)and then there are the tiny things which do not warrant a news headline, a Facebook post or even a good cry, which pop up in your day, in the manner of a banana skin (or worse) when out for a jog.
This week, my week started badly with the Incident Of The Cut Thumb. Yes, this warrants capital letters, as the aforementioned digit has caused more problems than a leaf on the West Coast Mainline.
It all began with a flurry of morning efficiency with bread and a nice new knife with well-serrated edge.
I won’t share details to protect the more lily-livered but suffice to say my kitchen looked like a murder scene. I should have invited those nice students from the CSI course at the university to look for clues.
Having managed to stem the blood flow using every plaster and toilet roll in the house, I then attempted to get ready for work, realising showering would prove difficult and hair washing impossible. My thumb kept on pouring as I stepped in the water - think shower scene in Psycho.
But I made it to work, driving with my thumbs stuck out like a posh person’s little finger when drinking tea, to receive several compliments (sarcastic, surely) on my wild and unwashed bed-hair.
I actually sighed with relief once at my desk, before realising that a journalist’s greatest tool is her left thumb. Reading papers, typing, phone tweeting - all a bloody minefield.
I made it to late afternoon before reigniting my injury by attempting to pick up a paper, producing a bright red spurt which inspired rifling one-handed through the first aid box and scattering DNA across the, fortunately previously-stained, carpet.
The saga continues and plaster supplies in steep decline but in name of research I can confirm thumbs are actually really important.
And I’m not going to bother taking up jogging.