(Google the original Vulgate and you discover a really punk poem by Dowson, worse than Hallelujah after Cohen finished jerking around with it.)
The side-effects of codeine become more unpleasant with age, but may I say, just for now, that for the first time in a week I am without pain. And after a week of razor blades in the throat, this is most welcome.
"Don't get this wet," the surgeon said as she wrapped gauze about my right index finger-- and wrapped, and wrapped, and wrapped. "Would surgical gloves work?" I asked. "Mh, it's going to be pretty sizable," she said: and yes indeed, twice the width and more of the original digit. "Try a plastic bag with an elastic, maybe." I've always found those let water in, even as one's hand (foot, whatever) is going blue from the tightness of the elastic. "Or you could use a condom." Which (cough) is what I am doing, because when I'm near water it splashes all by itself.
However I can see me being one-eyed for a week, because I can't get my contacts in and out left-handed, and barely managed the out part with my right thumb and middle finger. And how good that I mended those five sheets from work in this morning's 4 am insomnia, because I'm clearly not sewing for a little while either.
