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on left wrist, right on the main vein, topside - tiny wee scar, very unimpressive. However behind it lies a gory story. About seven years ago, i was working a summer job, hop-picking (hops being those lovely buds that make beer). Back-breaking long days spent walking along in front of a tractor, machete in hand. My job was to cut the hops at the bottom (they grow like vines) while someone on the tractor trailer cut from the top. Then the Polish boys in the trailer would haul the hop plants in. Two weeks i did this mind numbing work rain or shine. Never have furtively sneaked roll-ups tasted so good.
Anyway. Final day of this malarkey, about three hop plants from the end, I casually swung my machete, as I had countless times before, but this time straight into my wrist. BANG. At first I thought I'd simply whacked it, but to my horror my grey sweatshirt sleeve started to go red. Fast. Pulling the sleeve up, I saw I had hit a vein. Blood was pissing out, like I'd never (and haven't since) seen. I could actually see where my pulse would quicken the flow. Terrifed, in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere, I didn't know what to do. Neither did The Polish boys. All were transfixed on the viscera.
Suddenly, out of the blue, comes Tom, this old Cockney guy, who drove the other tractor. Quick as a flash, he hacked off a hop vine, wrapped it tight round my arm and told me to pull it as hard as I could. Without pausing he rolled a fag (one-handed) and shoved it in my gob. I could barely stand, but his quick-thinkinhg and jovial attitude reassure me enough to stay conscious.
cut, to ten minutes later, I'm speeding along in the back of the hop-farmer's car, holding my wrist in the air, blood still streaming out. Blood all over me, all over the back seat. It was like 'Reservoir Dogs' played out in home counties English:
"Are you Okay?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine"
"sure"
"Oh yes.."
In truth I was bricking it. I'd never lost so much blood, and the first village surgery we stopped at didn't have the facilities to help. We were now headed to the local A&E in Tunbridge Wells. But stuck in traffic. It took everything not to dissolve in a blubbering heap, but eventually we made it. Staggering into the reception I looked like a gun-shot victim. My entire top, and jeans were soaked dark red and i could smell the iron. Typically, it being A&E there's always someone worse off than you, and i ended waiting for about two hours anyway. By the time the nurse cleaned up the wound the blood had finally congealed and stopped, leaving one tiny centimetre cut, which she sealed with a stitch.
I tried to get my Mum to take a photo of the blood-soaked me, but she was too appalled,
and wouldn't. So now I'm left with a laughably small scar, and an aversion to the smell of hops... |
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What a nice ego boost.