All that comes with it

There are many objects in this world that can cause pain and misery. Guns, flick-knifes, explosives, Céline Dion. We are fortunate in the Hughes household in that these sort of things do not have any significant impact on our lives. The closest we have come to the atrocities of this world is watching them on the news, and sometimes we have problems stomaching even that.

There is something in our lives that has been the root of much suffering and distress recently however. It’s about 0.5cm long and 0.05cm thick and it’s made of wood.

Amy has a splinter. She’s had it since Friday. It’s not one of those extrovert splinters - the ones that stick proudly out of your finger at a jaunty angle. No; this little bugger has gone deep undercover, revealing itself only by a faint black shadow on her palm surrounded by angry red soreness.

We tried to get it out on Saturday. Amy’s distress was so great that we had to physically restrain her in an attempt to keep her hand still enough to excavate it. Her entire body was heaving with great wracking sobs and she was begging and pleading with us to stop. After a while we couldn’t bear to put her through it any longer and gave up for the day.

Amy and I went upstairs for a a comforting cuddle and a chat. I told her a rather convoluted story about a Giant called Jonathan. I’m still not quite sure why I made him a giant, but I was making it up as I went along so she was lucky he didn’t mysteriously change name, sex, and species twelve times during the tale. In the story Jonathan got a splinter in his hand then refused to let his Dad, then his Mum, then his dog get his splinter out for him (The dog was going to bite it out if you must know. I bet the brothers Grimm never got people poring scorn on their gingerbread houses). Jonathan’s splinter became redder and redder and sorer and sorer until finally in the climactic and explosive conclusion to the epic tale Jonathan’s friend Jack took it out with some tweezers.

I don’t think J.K. Rowling has much to worry about.

We tried to dig the splinter out on Sunday as well, but her distress was just compounded by the fact that once she saw the tweezers come out she now knew what was coming. I was laid on her arm and restraining her legs while Kerry fought to prise her fist open. The whole affair was completely horrific and ultimately unsuccessful. Amy still has the splinter and probably a hefty dose of childhood trauma to boot.

Still, she told me that her new favorite story is Jonathan and the splinter, so things aren’t so bad.