It looks like my recent post about kindness has been well received; thank you, inmates. And you also like stories about disasters that befall me, often of my own making. So here is a post that combines them.

In London, Mrs Bear and I lived on the first floor (second floor to Americans) of a converted terrace in Fulham. We planned a trip to Germany for Easter to visit my various relatives and my XL250 which was hiding in my cousin’s garage. Transport for this was to be the near-new Suzuki GS750 I had recently bought from Graeme Crosby’s shop, but that left us with the question of what to do with Mrs Bear’s Puch Maxi. It didn’t seem like a good idea to leave it parked outside in the street, so I came up with a cunning plan.

I would cover the floor of our flat’s hallway with a water- and oil-proof tarpaulin, carry the Puch up the stairs and leave it on the tarp while we were away.

Now I need to change subject for a moment. The Puch had, cast or welded onto the forks’ lower triple tree, a nubbin from memory some 2mm in diameter and 5mm in height. This was designed to hit the steering head stem to restrict fork movement. It was probably intended to protect cables or wiring from being squashed.

Okay, back to the main story.

I spread out the tarp and went downstairs to fetch the scooter. It really wasn’t very heavy, so I cheerfully humped it through the front door and up the first flight of stairs. I then had to execute a 180 degree turn to reach the second flight. All went well until I lifted the front of the scooter to clear the steps. I had one hand on the saddle and the other around the steering head stem, and I suspect you can work out what happened next – although perhaps not in detail.

The front of the bike swung around quite forcefully, and the abovementioned nubbin punched through the fingernail and then the rest of my right ring finger.

It is always difficult to convey really major joy or pain, but pain makes it easy for you because, if it’s major enough, you don’t immediately feel it. I reflexively dropped the front of the bike and stuck the mutilated finger into my mouth. That was just as well because, as I was about to discover, it was bleeding quite freely.

My next reaction, as the pain began to hit and my legs went rubbery, was to go to the doctor. There was a surgery right around the corner from our flat, and I made my way there, whimpering and with the finger still in my mouth. Now, much as I admire the National Health, it does lead to a heavy load on individual doctors. So it was in this case; as I stuck my head into the surgery, the first thing I noticed was that it was full.

You might expect a reasonable person to head for the nurse’s desk and request immediate assistance, but half crazed with pain as I was by now, I simply noted the crowd and decided that I could not wait for my turn. Therefore, and I will not try to explain this, driven by some kind of misplaced homing instinct, I turned and headed back to the flat. In the mirrored window of the pharmacy next to the doctor’s, I saw why everyone in the surgery had looked at me in horror. Due to my whimpering, thin rivulets of blood were running out of the corners of my mouth, turning me into a kind of pathetic Dracula.

Back home, I pushed past the Puch which I had abandoned on the half landing and opened the door of the flat. It might have been the sight of the tarpaulin, but for whatever reason I then blacked out and fell face forward onto its fortunately water- and therefore blood-proof surface.

Some time later, our upstairs neighbour came down on her way to the shops. I must have made an interesting picture, lying on my face half into the front door of the flat in a small, slowly expanding patch of blood.

Now she did the absolutely best and most British of all things, after making sure that I was breathing. She went back upstairs to her flat and she made a cup of tea. She brought it down and shook me to restore me to consciousness. After checking that I could hold onto the cup, she then constructed a makeshift but effective bandage. A few moments’ chat reassured her that I would be all right, so she continued on her shopping trip leaving me with that fragrant cup of lifesaver.

这是真的,一杯茶就会提高y situation, especially when it’s made by a kindly hand. Say what you like about coffee, but it can’t compete.

夫人Bear did a more professional job of the bandage when she got home from work – she is the daughter of a country GP (General Practitioner, I don’t know if you use that phrase in the US or Canada) and helped me carry her scooter the rest of the way into our flat. We took off for the ferry as planned the next morning, my hand throbbing not quite enough to distract me from riding.

It might seem odd, but what I remember most from that whole episode is the cup of tea, not the pain.

(Sorry that there are no photos of the events described above. I’m sure you will understand why.)