It's a wrap

Turn away if you can't stand blood.

Robert was using the leaf-blower this morning to get ready for dinner tonight -- John and Steve, and Steve and Paul -- and hit a stainless-steel fitting on the deck that pulls up the access panel to our plumbing.

I think it was the weather (we hit a new record low for the island, 48 F), and the ring on the fitting pulled up, and he scuffed his foot across it and . . .

I said we had to go to the E.R., considering the depth of the cut and the rate of bleeding.

Robert scoffed.

Matt the electrician was here on an unrelated crisis and was glad to be recruited for a second opinion, and to offer his services wrapping the wound in duct tape, and in persuading Robert that the E.R. staff really doesn't care if you've showered and applied cologne.

Six stitches later, plus a lovely demonstration of small-island syndrome (the three guys Robert brought here for a drink after bingo a month ago were Harvard Biz School grads who had been waiting for the surgical nurse's daughter), we got home.

So for him: no step. For me: fetch.