I probably should have originally posted this somewhere other than the Covid thread, but headspace is a funny thing.
I forgot the picture - and the Judith Gerry comment reminded me.
Quote:
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Originally Posted by StN
Back at primary school, I fell over in the playground and broke my leg. Dad got called, and took me to A&E, trundled me to x-ray and then around the hospital getting a cast etc until we ended up hooning down a corridor in a wheelchair, being dicks, pretending the crutches were machine guns. He brought me home.
Then one night at scouts I got a couple of fingers crushed in a door jamb and again he was called and dutifully took me to A&E, winced when they pulled out the pliers (to relieve the pressure) and said I could say as many naughty words as I liked when they pulled out my nails. They don't plaster broken fingers - just wrap them heaps. He brought me home.
Even in my late thirties, after young Kylie misread the situation at the lights, and I ended up in AfterHours, he turned up so wifey could go home and tend to the kids. He sat there while I got plastered up again. He brought me home.
Time now to disappear for a bit, popping out to pick him up. Mum is a bit superstitious about keeping things at home, so finally, after breaking his first ever bone, I get to return the favour. One bloody solid box - and ashes are more substantial than I had previously imagined.
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My brother runs an engineering firm, so when Mum said she just needed to hang on to him until the borders open back up and the Oz based family can come over, he needed somewhere to stay until interred in a memorial wall. With the Covid backlog at crematoria at the time, it left him and me a bit of shed time to build a box and CNC a nameplate.
