The Corned Beef Tin of Doom

A gruesome story from ten years ago…the faint-hearted might like to look away now.

I was opening a tin of corned beef, the sort with a key. I’d turned the key all around the can and was trying to pull the smaller section away – when it suddenly gave way.

Ouch! I said, thinking I’d given myself a little nick.

Then the blood started fountaining out of the end of my finger.

A gruesome story from ten years ago…the faint-hearted might like to look away now.

I was opening a tin of corned beef, the sort with a key. I’d turned the key all around the can and was trying to pull the smaller section away – when it suddenly gave way.

Ouch! I said, thinking I’d given myself a little nick.

Then the blood started fountaining out of the end of my finger.

Well I say the end of my finger. Until then it hadn’t been the end of my finger. What until then had been the end of my finger now sat in a growing pool of blood on the chopping board.

Bugger.

Thing is, I didn’t fancy going to hospital or anything. So I picked up the bit of finger, stuck it back on, and held it there beneath a reddening kitchen towel.

Then my sister walked in. Didn’t notice the blood everywhere and we had some pointless row about washing up or something. So I stormed out and went to the pub. Had a couple of pints while holding my finger together then walked home.

By then my sis had noticed the bloody mess and asked what I done, and I explained.

I then got some sellotape and stuck the top of my finger back on.

Bizarrely this heath-robinson approach actually worked. It healed. And today all that’s left is a tiny little circular scar on top of the finger. The skin kind of healed over where the cut happened and sort of grew up and over until just a little circle was left of the bit that I lopped off.