The danger of doors

This morning, before I'd really woken up, as I was walking into the kitchen to make my coffee, I caught my finger in the solid wood door.

It is the finger on my left hand. I'm left handed. I'm not sure what the finger is called, but it's the one an engagement ring goes on. I know because I've asked my Mum more than once. Right now, I think I might call it Louisa.

It hurt.

I made a little squeak and all sorts of silly faces.

Then I sat down with my head between my knees and one hand clutching, without actually touching, my finger.

The pain didn't go away, I thought it would.

I am the type of person who gets a little hurt and and is sure it's broken.

My finger isn't broken it just hurts.

And it gets in the way. I struggled to put my, admittedly tight, jeans on this morning. I managed by threading one finger under the belt loops on either side of my hips and pulling up.

I wanted to warn my fella of the dangers of closing doors before fully awake, but I think that might only be a danger for me.

When I did make my coffee, I forgot to empty the drip tray, it dripped into a big murky brown puddle on the kitchen floor. I spent too long trying to soak it up with a cheap cloth, the type that just moves the wet around.

My finger, Louisa, still hurts, but not as much.