Cor Gore!

I was greeted at the door by Husband, a rare enough occurence when he has a day off to spend and a computer to spend it with. With schoolboy glee he told me he'd cut his arm while assembling a set of metal shelves for the utility room. After a moment, I realised he was more geelful about the injury than the DIY.

Honestly. Men.

Since he'd taken a typical approach to dressing the wound (ie, bypassing the large, well-stocked first aid kit - "I didn't know where it was." "It was where I told you it was." - and rummaging around in drawers for a mismatch of old plasters) I immediately gathered some fresh dressings and took off the old ones, discovering that the wound (about an inch long, quarter of an inch deep) hadn't knit, and glanced up at Husband to tell him I'd need to buy him some closures.

I have never before seen my husband turn that particular shade of greenish yellow.

After persuading him to lie down as an alternative to passing out, I managed to sort out the cut, although I'm about to go out and buy additional first aid supplies to get us through anything short of major surgery...

He's fine, of course, and mildly chuffed he nearly passed out for the first time in his life. He's not even squeamish!

*rolling eyes*

Later, he told me that the farm cats who use our back yard as a kitten creche are attempting to wean their progeny onto solid food.

"Oh really? Is someone feeding them?"

"Not someONE."

"You mean the cats are bringing them something?"

"Uh-huh."

"Wow, they're bringing them mice?"

"Um. no."

"Rabbit?"

"Nuh-uh."

I frowned. "What, then?"

"Rat."

"There is a RAT in my BACKYARD?!"

"Don't worry, it's dead. Very dead."

He's not wrong, either. I'm now thinking of the kittens less in terms of cuteness, and more in terms of a furry school of piranha.

And Husband is going to clear up the remains, he's promised me. Because he's not squeamish, you know.