I’m going to have to keep this short (hush there, with your loud sighs of relief, please), as I’m typing one-handed.
This is not because I’m changing a nappy or wiping noses at the same time (for once). Nor is it because I’m shoveling snow or chopping logs or training wild boars to pull a sledge full of children (all of which form daily part of my Alpine life. Honest).
Not even because I’m stuffing my face with chocolate. Even though I am.
No, I’m writing this post with only five of the ten typing fingers I am usually blessed with, because I’ve only gone and broken my bloody wrist.
It had to happen sooner or later, didn’t it? What with all that base-jumping off cliffs, ice climbing up frozen waterfalls, and canoeing down whitewater rivers that I get up to at the weekends. (Honest. Again.)
My Facebook friends know the adrenaline-pumping situation which led to my downfall, but here’s the story for those who’ve not heard it already:
But this post isn’t about my exciting extra-curricular activities or even, rather, about my incompetent skiing ability. It is about how crap life is with one hand in plaster. Apologies for the self-pitying rant; my sense of humour might have got broken along with that scaphoid bone.
So here are five things Alpine Mummy can’t do with one hand:
1. Ski. But clearly I was very bad at that anyway. That’s why I’m in this mess. Move on.
2. Get Task Manager up on my PC (‘control alt delete’ is impossible with only one functioning thumb). Or take screen shots on an iPad. A modern curse.
3. Open gin. Or wine. Or anything vaguely interesting in fact.
You’d think it would lead to sobriety and skinniness, but it is instead leading to me teaching Alpine Boy how to use a corkscrew. Life skills.
4. Cycle. This is BAD. I entered a major (for me) bike race – the Etape du Tour, where ‘normal’ people cycle a mountain stage of the Tour de France. It takes place on 10 July 2016. And is doubly exciting because passes pretty much past our house. But this plaster cast might not come off until end of May. Which gives me 6 whole weeks to train so I can get my (now rather wobbly) backside up 4 (huge) mountain climbs in one (long) 150km day. Ain’t gonna happen.
5. Wash or dry my hair, wash my right arm, put deodorant on, or shave my right armpit. Too much information…?
Like I said, I’m keeping it brief (predictive text has its limits), so I’ll stop the (actually endless) list there. I won’t mention not being able to cut my own dinner, and the embarrassment that causes when having a posh meal with colleagues you’ve just met for the first time.
Or indeed the inability to light the gas hob, cut veg, carry a saucepan of water, stack the dishwasher, or change the stinky nappy of an angry, uncooperative nearly-two-year-old.
OK, it’s not all bad. And it’s a good job Alpine Papa loves me…