Band-Aid (Jeremy)

IF somebody was to rock up to University one morning with three limbs in plaster, I would happily sacrifice half an hour of my lecture time in order to hear whatever story it is they have to tell (presumably one including something as interesting as free-fall base jumping, visit Mark Latham day, or simply rather a lot of alcohol). That carries kudos. Arriving with your arm in a sling indicates a half-decent injury such as a dislocated shoulder which at least points the way to a grimace-inducing and very manly sporting mishap. That carries kudos. Bandages could conceal wounds obtained in a no-holds-barred underworld machete fight. That carries kudos. I mean, for goodness’ sakes, even a set of Steristrips spells the kudos-carrying words of “f-i-s-t-f-i-g-h-t” across your forehead, but a set of band-aids, however, tell the world one thing and one thing only. Suggested slogan: “Band-Aids. For when you’ve made a complete tool of yourself”.

Think about it. Remember all the times you’ve ever had to wear a Band-Aid because you were too weak to go and get yourself a proper injury? Cut your hand cooking? Bandage and stitches, and pronto. Cut your finger turning the page? Sorry son, you’re a tool, and that’ll be a Band-Aid. Emerged from a footy pack with your hand pointing towards Venus and your fingers splayed out in the direction of Mars? That’s a lot of pain and a great story to tell your mates afterwards. Walked into the door getting into the changeroom afterwards? Not only have you made a complete tool of yourself, but, even worse, that’s going to need a Band-Aid. The other unwritten law of Band-Aids is, naturally, that some ungrateful, similarly ditzy wretch will have taken the last skin-coloured one and so you will now be presented with a choice of loud pink or Sesame-Street themed Band-Aids to tack across your forehead.

I suppose it’s time to come clean and divulge my own Band-Aid story. I currently am the proud owner of three angry-looking scrapes across the top of my head; one on the middle of the forehead, one with a cut below my hairline, and another one across the top of the bridge of my nose. (Suggested reply to any interested onlookers; “No, I just went to pick my nose and kept missing”). The best description I can give of my appearance is that I look like someone who has just shot a television series called “Fun with Ashphalt”. In actual fact, the scrapes were really the result of a full-scale fight with poor Kim’s swimming pool. I was butterfly-kicking underwater (with eyes open) and looking for the end of the pool. Unfortunately, my eyes had a little difficulty in locating it, so my head decided to come to the rescue. I resurfaced, shook my head twice, checked that my skull pointed outwards rather than in, and laughed. Kim took one look, went rather pale, and told me that I was bleeding. I thought it was actually fairly funny. Oh Jez, you’ve made a complete tool of yourself. And, what’s more, I think that’s going to need a Band-Aid.

On a somewhat nicer and definetely far more pleasant note, last Thursday us Bloggers had a lunch put on for us by the Transition Department. (Sandwiches… cake… fruit… obviously they’d run out of lobster by the time Thursday rocked around). Not only did I catch up with the Powers That Be (under watchful eye to make sure that I didn’t put a foot out of line, of course), but I also had the opportunity to meet Chris and Jim, which was naturally an absolute pleasure. To add to an already wonderful hour, the Transition Department gave us a certificate of appreciation and a free book for our troubles… I see that as being fifteen dollars off my HECS debt, with roughly only a couple of thousand to go.

As an interesting little postscript before I sign out once again and return to my Engineering study, I would like to bring up a small faux pas that was made in the leadup to this lunch (as long as, of course, Soph doesn’t mind). Sophie is, of course, as is well-documented, the Social Secretary of the Political Interest Society (possibly the world’s worst acronym for a society, but there you go), and naturally feels great obligation every time she introduces some new lamb to the PIS slaughterhouse. In the days leading up to the lunch, she was umming and aahing over whether to go to the lunch or lead this new person over to the PIS meeting. The day before the lunch, we bumped into each other by total chance outside the Bailleu. “It’s ok”, said Sophie, in a measured voice. “I’ve decided I’m not going to PIS in the middle of lunch.”

enjoy the great weather –

jez.

ps – Honorable mention must go to Kim and her family, especially her sister, Jacqui, who swept away her biting exterior for an icepack and some Betadine. Thanks, guys.