Well, actually this accident didn't require hospital attention. Or at least it hasn't yet. I'm still in some discomfort or as Mrs P, the woman I previously thought of as empathetic, says: I'm just being a "sooky bubba".
I feel I should point out I have needed a bit of "surgery" but one of the advantages of having medical people in the family is they know what to do, when to do it and most importantly how to do it.
Unfortunately, for me, there are disadvantages too.
Unlike their totally professional counterparts at the emergency department, those in my bubble seem to think it's okay to practically wet their pants with laughter as they administer treatment.
Anyway, let me explain.
I'm helping the old bloke down the road tidy his house up for sale.
He's lived there years. Not done much done to it in that time and now he's decided it's time to let it go and get something smaller. That sort of thing.
So, I'm helping and one of my jobs is to have a look at a bit of flakey papery stuff on the ceiling above the kitchen sink.
Now in days gone by actually getting close enough to the ceiling to do the work would have been a doddle.
I'd probably have sprung up onto the kitchen bench in one bound without a care in the world and leapt back down similarly without any effect on bones, joints or ligaments.
But now I can't do that. Too many years of football has seen bones, joints and ligaments cower in unison at the thought of such activity.
So, I give in to the inevitable "shall I, shan't I give it a go" debate going on in my head and opt for a nice easy chair to get me half way there and then kneel on the bench.
From there it's a laboured elevator ride to full height as the knee that was seconds earlier fixed firm on a rock-hard surface decides whether to protest or not.
But I get there and before you can say "should have got a bloke in" I'm looking at this flakey paper and considering my options.
I decide the best bet is to get some glue and stick it back down.
Problem.
The glue is back on the ground, 43 storeys below.
So, I go back down to my knees, then on to the chair and then back onto the ground, a little bead of sweat emerging on my forehead, partly due to the exertion and partly due to the sun streaming in through the kitchen window.
The return trip is just as arduous but luckily there is no knee grumbling as I go from bench to slow elevator.
The bead of sweat is now a river and it's joined by a tributary running down my back, so I figure I might just take my T-shirt off while I'm doing this job to try and cool down a bit.
That turned out to be my biggest mistake.
There I am, shirtless, reaching above me with a tube of industrial strength glue to stick down a tiny piece of paper. And I press the tube too much.
A great big glob of glue fires out onto the ceiling in two separate patches above me and then, as I try to work out my next move, it falls . . . straight on to my hairy chest.
Now, I am not what you'd call a bear in the hairiness department. But what I do have is strategically located around my left and right breasts, or as those of us who live in the real world call them (with a resigned shrug) my man boobs.
Thankfully I've stopped the glue dripping on to the new lino below. Some might say I deserve a medal for putting myself in harm's way to prevent a catastrophe. I couldn't possibly comment.
All I know is I got down off the kitchen bench pretty fast. Just fast enough to stop a drip from the industrial strength glue running down my left side pooling in my belly button.
Unfortunately I was not so lucky on the other side.
The gluey goo started working its way down through my chest hairs towards my right nipple.
I grabbed a nearby cloth and tried to wipe it off.
Sadly, I just smeared it all around the area and as the credits began to roll on this sorry saga the glue began to harden in my chest hairs.
To say I raced back home for medical assistance pretty quick would be an understatement.
To say Mrs P laughed uproariously when she saw it would be 100 per cent true. As it would be when she spent an hour later cutting and carefully shaving the matted hairs on one half of my chest and around one nipple.
Now my chest has a decidedly lopsided look to it.
One half shaven, the other not.
Oh well, my pride might be wounded but at least I can say my wife had a boob job once and it didn't cost me a cent.
Boom, boom.
