*I was aged around eleven when I slashed my hand rather badly on some rusty barbed wire. My stepfather mocked any silly talk about anti-tetanus jabs and stitches, and bound the wound with a bandage which he tied off with a neat bow. Meanwhile, my mother walked back along the route I’d taken home, cleaning up the blood which had dripped onto the pavement. Housewives in those days took personal responsibility for the state of the neighbourhood, you see, and my mother was a great believer in doing her social duty. Nevertheless, I still find her action so bizarre that I’ve often wondered whether I dreamt it in a state of delirium. I’m sure I didn’t because I wasn’t delirious; I was more interested in the way my stepfather cut the end of the bandage lengthways in order to tie it off. Things like that impressed me.*
My eye is still sore and not focusing properly.
And I am trying to get back into writing this blog. I am.