He was playing rugby on Saturday for the first time since last December and thought he had dislocated his little finger on his left hand. So he 'popped' it back in to place and thought little more of it. Over the weekend the finger came more and more to resemble a very old, very black parsnip which, for a digit, is not a good look. By Sunday night it was also very cold to the touch and so, after much nagging from me (hey, that's what wives are for, isn't it?) hubby agreed to phone the doctor on Monday.
Monday came and the doc told hubby to go to the local hospital in Henley and so off he went. Oh dear. Hubby was not happy when he finally emerged from said 'hospital' which is staffed, and I quote, "by old dodderers". At first they made him wait for 50 minutes, even though he was the only person in there; then finally they told him to come back in another 50 minutes as the 'doctor' was writing up her notes from the previous patient. Hubby was fuming. When he went back they took an X-ray which confirmed that the finger was in fact broken, but they couldn't fix it there (it's only a hospital after all, why on earth would you think they could do anything as major as fix a broken finger?), instead hubby needed to go to the 'big' hospital in Reading. Oh dear, this made him fume even more (and, of course, it was all my fault for making him go in the first place...) Hubby decided to wait until the evening to go to the real hospital since he was supposed to be at work all the time that the pretend hospital were making him wait.
Evening came and hubby duly went off to Reading. He finally emerged a couple of hours later with this rather fetching little number on his finger
and with this immortal line ringing in his ears:
'they could have done this at the hospital in Henley'...
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