Little Stalky's Leg

Who knew that taking the rubbish out could be such a dangerous experience?  Not I!  But apparently it is, as I found out when I was attacked by something unidentified and pointy just the other day.  There I was, innocently taking out the rubbish on my way to work.  The rucksack was on, the headphones were in and the sun was shining.  All was fine in the land of Little Stalky until I swung the bag up to throw it in the bin and felt a painful scratch across my thigh.  I looked down and saw a long mark across my leg.  There was a pause - that moment when you hold your breath and wait to see how deep it is - and then blood started to flow.  I'm a little bit squeamish about seeing my own blood but oddly enough the only thought I had at that point was "oh dear, I'm going to be late for work."  Having dumped the offending bag I was torn between "walking it off" and dashing upstairs for a plaster.  As it turned out walking it off was not going to be an option as it was bleeding quite a lot.  I cursed the bin bag, ran upstairs and grabbed the medical supplies - a couple of plasters shoved in an empty ice cream tub.  I washed the wound, slapped on a mountain of Savlon and covered my leg in one, two, three, four plasters.  I figured that should do the trick until I got to work and could complain to the girls about my injury.  So I took off, walking faster than normal to make up for lost time and arrived at work without losing the leg.  Luckily for me there was not one but two first aiders on that morning and they both took a look at the leg.  Then everyone else in the office looked at the leg.  Then the postman arrived and looked at the leg.  My left leg got almost as much attention as Angelina Jolie's leg did at the Oscars.  The wound was rubbed with alcohol (that stings), rubbed with iodine and then covered in a much more substantial plaster.  I felt satisfied that the wound had been taken care of until both first aiders told me I would need a tetanus shot.  Really?  It was just a scratch.  It wasn't even that deep.  But the wound was inflicted by an unknown source - it could have been a bin bag dwelling shark - and it was best to be on the safe side.  So what do you do when you're unsure of whether to heed this advice?  You ring your mum, who is not only your mum but who also was once a nurse.    You will accept her answer as definitive.  So when your mum tells you to get the tetanus shot, you grudgingly accept that after the simple task of taking the rubbish out you now need to get a needle stuck in your arm.  I'm never putting the rubbish out again.