The Ring of Pain
This story is in two parts, separated by some 30 or so years....and one generation.


Part One
I was about seven years old and then (as now) I
was rather fond of dressing up.
Picture the scene....

Small Chickenlady dressed in her mother's 1960s and 70s finery - beautiful little Jackie O dresses and fabulous stiletto winklepicker shoes.

All of these stunning outfits had to be set off by just the right costume jewellery.

My favourite items were the necklace, bracelet, ring and earring sets that could be bought for about 25p from Woolworths - the cheaper and gaudier the better (to be honest, I've not changed, I simply get my accessories from Primark now and not Woolies).

On this particular occasion I was sporting a lovely acid orange plastic set of jewels and even if I do say so myself, I looked stunning in a way that only a small child wearing oversized clothes and trashy plastic junk can.

I was very happy with my outfit that day and went off to bed a satisfied Chickenlady.

Just one thing....I had overlooked removing my jewellery, namely the orange ring.


The following morning - a Monday and therefore a school day - my finger was swollen and the ring seemed stuck fast.

First of all my mother tried to use soap to slide the ring off.
No.
Butter.
No.
Cold water and then butter.
No.
Cold water and then soap.
No, no, no.

So my dad came to the rescue...he had just the thing in the shed...out he went and then returned...with a hacksaw.

I began to scream - as would any normal sane child who believes her finger is about to be amputated.

Both my parents attempt to calm me down...utterly useless.

So my mother holds me tight and my hand is held firmly while my father begins to saw. Backwards and forwards went the hacksaw (I can honestly remember every draw of the blade across my young finger) until the ring was broken and eventually my small dimpled digit set free without so much as a scratch upon it.

I was late to school that morning but entertained the class at Show and Tell time with my story of Frankensteinesque proportions - even then I was never one to understate things for the sake of a good (or indifferent) story.

Part Two

Thirtyish years later.....

Chickenlady is now the proud mother of twin boys.

Boys for whom no stone is left unthrown when their brother is in sight.

Boys for whom no torture or adventure is avoided.

Boys, in other words, who will no doubt follow in their mother's footsteps and become, one day, true B3tans (god help us).


Son #2 has a magnet set which comes with various bits of washers, coils and springs and other odds and ends of metalwork.

Can you see where this is going yet?

I have to say that I'm eternally grateful that this happened when he was about seven or eight and not five or six years later........

So, adventurous soul that he is, decides he fancies wearing a ring on his finger (see...that's why I'm glad it happened while he was under 10) for a while...overnight actually.

Around half past ten I went up to bed and as usual I checked on them to ensure they were both in bed and the wreckage in their bedroom wasn't too bad or life-threatening.
Fortunately I notice that son #2 has a swollen finger and is sporting a fetching metal ring on said finger.

Yes, like mother, like son.

So I call the ex-Mr Chickenlady (the boys' father) and we decide we can't leave the child like this overnight. I wake him up and first of all I try to remove the ring using soap.
No.
Hand cream.
No.
Cold water and soap.
No...and for god's sake woman, do you not have a memory!

Ah...yes....

Bearing in mind this was all taking place on a farm, we didn't have a shed at the bottom of the garden with a hacksaw...no...we had a tractor shed with a small pair of wire cutters - Ideal!

Son #2 is quickly kitted out with slippers and dressing gown and sleepily walked over to the yard.

We open up the huge shed doors.

We go into the workshop.

The first thing he sees on the workbench is...


A CHAINSAW

He screams and becomes hysterical.

Both ex-Mr Chickenlady and myself try hard to both calm the child and stop laughing like loons while also attempting to find the wirecutters....We finally find them and the boy is set free, but forever mentally scarred by the experience.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Sat 22 Dec 2007, 23:02, 3 replies)

Winklepickers
Sounds like a swear... Are those what we call "cockroach killers"? Shoes whose pointy toes you can easily get into the smallest crack?

This being b3ta, I thought you were going to tell us he had slipped the ring on his own little winkle and you had to cut it off. The ring, I, mean. Poor child.


Click!
(TDub Nunc id vides, nunc ne vides on, Sat 22 Dec 2007, 23:12, closed)

Winklepickers are very, very pointed shoes which were popular in the sixties - my mother had some lovely ones.

And yes, had he been a few years older I suspect it would have been a more intimate ring wearing...
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Sat 22 Dec 2007, 23:14, closed)

Awh!
that's adorable.
(Frozen_Banana Shaved against the grain; thoroughly unrewarding., Mon 24 Dec 2007, 0:05, closed)