03 August 2005

Fucking knobs

Most Londoners are currently afraid of The Terrorist Threat. So much so that Even six months ago, when the retiring commissioner of the Metropolitan police, Sir John Stevens, said an attack on London was "inevitable", a fire on a bus would not have caused such a heightened reaction from passengers or the authorities.

But, me? I've found my own thing to fear - Doors.

It's official. I hate doors.

I don't mean The Doors. I mean, doors. Those things you go through.

Today I have managed to bruise my right arm not once, but twice on door knobs.

Firstly, as I arrived at work this morning and was unlocking, I got into a fight carrying my bag, some bottles of water and the mail and trying to open a door simultaneously. Needless to say, the door won. I got savagely attacked by the handle and am now sporting a nice patch of blue on my arm just above my elbow.

Last week when my friend came over to help with the still ongoing redecoration of my bathroom, she painted over some pink painted pipes with blue paint, looked up at me from under the sink and said "It's got that smothered baby look about it, both flesh coloured and blue..." I suspect if I were to put my arm against the pipe now, they'd match. Except for the hairs and the freckles of course. Though, I have just painted over the layer of dust 10 years thick (yes, my flat was really that icky when I got it. I don't wanna know about the thick layer of black gunk on the underside of my toilet cistern), so it might get the hirsute look from fluff showing through. And perhaps slightly speckled in a freckley way too.

I managed to get through the rest of the work day avoiding further attacks, despite a rather close call with the automatic door of Boots in Kings Cross station.

I arrived outside my block of flats thinking "Ahhh, home sweet home" after a stressful day including a weeks worth of answerphone messages following me not going into work at all last week after the arse-injuring, and my colleague being on leave. Then there was the internet connection packing up. Ooo. I don't like days that start without me being able to send Emails. Especially with PMT.

Anyway, I went to enter my building when once again I was brutally attacked by the door knob. This time it was just below the shoulder. Though, that bruise isn't the same impressive blue, and looks more like I have a teensy patch of jaundice.

The one good thing about having an impairment that makes me bruise easily is that I have always got bruises to show for any bumps I may get. Though it's often weird trying to explain away those spontaneous bruises. Especially when they're somewhere really random, like my boob. Not that anyone ever sees them, so I don't have to explain that often.

Today isn't the first time I've been brutally attacked by a door. A couple of years ago I was volunteering on a FOCUS project. I was chatting to the Project Manager, and leaning on the frame of the main door. As you might be able to tell from the picture of the site we were using on this page, the door was quite heavy and hefty. While I was chatting away, I didn't realise that the door was swinging shut behind me. A split second before the pain of a fractured knuckle struck, I saw the person I was talking to flinch, but it wasn't enough time for me to see what he was flinching at and retract my hand. Oh no. Doors are mean and evil and have it in for me.

Maybe it's revenge for the fact that I once kicked a hole in the bathroom door at home when I was a moody teenager? I'd have thought that the broken knuckle was sufficient punishment for that. So why must doors continue to attack?

I previously wrote about a vague notion of re-subtitling my blog. Maybe I should opt for "How to injure oneself..." or maybe I should go for a quote from lifts everywhere: "Please stand clear of the doors."

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