For some reason the regular table knives we encountered in our apartment and in restaurants in the Faroes all had viciously sharp serated blades. I’ve no idea why – maybe it’s all the whaling they do. These knives would certainly cut through blubber because they sure as hell cut through my fingers.
Justin and Niall were lucky to escape the week unscathed, although why I was wounded but not my travelling companions, I am not sure. Maybe it was bad luck, or carelessness on my part. Or it could mean it’s the stigmata. Only in the wrong places, three-fifths incomplete, and a hundred percent less likely to spawn their own horror film.
The first cut is nearly a week old and is still in evidence, and the second – a chunk of my thumb cut out while washing up yesterday – bled a huge amount and is still very sore.
I’ll just about live, but I guess I’ll have the scars for a couple of weeks.
I wonder if the beer will last longer than that…