Faith and begorrah, I threaded the wee sewing needle with a length of dental floss, white as a ghost’s Sunday drawers, and swore on Saint Patrick’s left sock I’d sterilized the divil of a thing — or at least scared the germs half to death with a fierce splash of peroxide, don’tcha know? Then, muttering dark prayers and worse curses, I set about stitchin’ meself like a man with more courage than sense and precious little blood left to lose, didn’t I?
The pain struck me square, like medieval torture administered by lads who’d had their porridge pissed in, didn’t it just? I burst into a sweat fit to float a coracle, though it was twenty‑five degrees and cold as a landlord’s heart, wasn’t it? So I scraped away the top layers of a mighty snowdrift — inches of snow so white and pure it could make a nun blush — until there was nothin’ left but clean, judgmental frost. In went me wounded hand then, bold as brass, and I’d have taken a dram o’ the cure right then if I’d had the use of the other, don’tcha know?
Sweet sufferin’ saints.
The cold bit harder than the gash itself, praise be, and I held it there till the pain sobered up and staggered off, didn’t I? Out it came then, another holy splash of peroxide fizzin’ and spittin’ like a fairy’s cauldron, and I braced meself for the needle again, mutterin’ that they’re always after me lucky charms, especially when a man’s already sufferin’, aren’t they?
Top o’ the mornin’, lads! said the needle, bold as brass, slidin’ into me flesh easy as a lie at confession, didn’t it? And truth be told, the worst of it wasn’t the pain at all, no — it was the unholy thought of skewering me own mortal hide like a sausage at a harvest fair, wasn’t it just? So I shut me eyes, clenched me teeth, and chanted Jabberwocky like a hedge‑witch gone wrong, don’tcha know, duckin’ back once more to the snowbank for a frosty blessing before finishin’ the ghastly business, didn’t I?
When it was finally done, I surveyed me handiwork, didn’t I? Would it win embroidery prizes, would it now? Faith and begorrah, not unless the judges were blind, drunk, and three sheets to the wind. But it’d keep the rot away, wouldn’t it, and that’s a mercy I’d gladly toast with another dram o’ the cure, don’tcha know?
’Twas brillig, so it was — and the slithy toves can mind their own feckin’ business.59Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSu9HhwH3nh
Can ye spot me a fiver? i'm skint.59Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1bfki3gS8l
(that's me, finished.)
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.