Yet more drink induced NHSisms.
A bit tenuous, but I've personally never really had any dealings with the NHS or hospitals in general really. There's been some visits to hospitals, but all has been fine and dandy.

However, a while ago, the young Ms Dchurch and I had moved into a new place.
We went out for a drink or 9 on the first night, as it was right next to a pub, with two pubs within walking distance either side.
At one of the pubs, we meet a young couple of girls, who, quite honestly, shouldn't have been anywhere near a pub - I think they were about 15 years old.

Anyway, it turns out that the blonde one had been ditched by her mates and left about 25 miles from home. By this time I was far too pissed to be anywhere near a car and my fatherly instinct cut in. I was trying to help her find her mates; lending her my phone, getting the bloke behind the bar to ask about etc... and I may have innocently told her that we had a spare room if the worst came to worst. In a sober state, these days, I would have run a mile.

Anyway, eventually she manages to get hold of her mum and gets her to pick her up and take her home.

Sadly, that was not the end of it. Ms Dchurch hadn't taken kindly to me 'paedophiling' a young girl, and saw to it that I was on the recieving end of some very pissed girl punches.
We get back to the flat, where I just give in, in that bloke kind of way, "ok, you do what you want, I'm going to bed and in the morning you'll realise that I've done bugger all wrong.".

I thought that was the end of it, but no...she phones the police and reports me for, get this, "flirting", who, for once turn up within about 2 minutes.
I go outside and speak to one of them, and he can see that Ms D is very pissed, whereas I am simply mildly pissed, and they bugger off, more than a little narked off I would imagine for having their time wasted. Although why they chose to turn up to a 999 call of "My boyfriend is flirting with a girl" I'll never know. In my opinion they should have thrown the book at her for wasting police time and making a fake 999 call. Fake 999 calls are my pet hate, and she knows it.

I go inside, go up to bed and try to get some sleep.

Ms D decided that this just isn't good enough and storms into the room F'ing and Blinding, so I get up and move to the spare room.
Still she won't leave it alone, and so we end up in a tug of war with the door handle. Me trying to keep her out, and her trying to get in to brandish more girly beatings.
I get bored quite easily, and so I let go of the door handle.

Somehow, Ms D ends up snapping the handle off, and impaling her wrist on the jagged end. God only knows this happened as the door would have swung away from her, not towards her.

She demands I call an ambulance, I politely and calmly refuse (I know it doesn't ring true, but it is I can assure you). I take her to the bathroom and clean it up - and it does actually look quite bad. It's not near an artery or anything, but she grabs the phone and phones for an ambulance. Half way through I have to take over the call as she's so pissed and now histerical that the woman on the other end of the phone can't understand a word she's saying.

The short and curlies of the call were that there were no available ambulances to come and sort it out, so she suggests a bloke who lives near by who is an off-duty paramedic.

He turns up and he's a really nice guy, he can clearly tell that there's been some sort of row and he's polite about it. I get him a drink and he simply puts a bandage around her wrist and says his farewells. Personally, I felt guilty that he'd had his time wasted and so I gave him a bottle of Gin to take with him by way of thanks. Sadly, he wouldn't accept it...and given the floor show created by drinking such filth, I'm not all that suprised.

Fast-forward a few hours and Ms D is tucked up in bed snoring and sleeping off the bacardi breezers or whatever else it was sloshing down her gullet, and I go and join her.

Shutting the door behind me...

In the morning I wake up, I'm desperate to give birth to a brown food baby. I walk to the door, and....of course, there's no bloody handle to turn. I try squeezing the blood stained, copper sharded end and twisting, but to no avail. I'm really getting ready to beam down a Shatner now, and am jumping about in pain and clenching my fart clappers like my life depended on it, when I spot a cereal bowl by her side of the bed.

I look out the window for a Michael Jackson-like kid hanging alternative, but alas there's people out there walking their dogs and they don't need that for breakfast, and so I decide on the bowl.

Fully refreshed, I then set about opening the door by wrapping a towel around the sharded end and keep turning until I get the door handle to turn. I go downstairs, open the cupboard and pull out some hundreds-and-thousands.

You know what came next.

I slept in the spare room that night and the night after.

Still, that'll teach her.

Length? It was the morning after the night before, so probably more deep than long.
(dchurch bah, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 19:30, 2 replies)

I always enjoy your posts
*click*
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Wed 17 Mar 2010, 7:05, closed)

i like this
but your missus is a nutcase.
(Alphabet Soap boshboshboshbosh, Wed 17 Mar 2010, 10:05, closed)