Chickpeas? What chickpeas? Whoe chickpeas?

Amazing to report-but my last post started a shitstorm. Yes- I know- swear box. I've got so many that I'm going to have to get a bigger box-the size of a small car. Or maybe a minibus. Living here-and at this rate-I'll be able to fly to Australia-and everywhere else-first class, and have the accommodation to match.

I think that a few people's brains exploded. And all I said was that British males have balls the size of chickpeas. Imagine criticizing the rest of them. Oh-of course, I did, didn't I?

I was standing in the supermarket, minding my own business, when I heard barking behind me. Barking, as in nearly shouting "chickpeas? What do you mean, chickpeas?" The barking came from Annie, who works as a school dinner lady (God help us), and lives up the road. Now-you don't start any disagreements with Annie. She's nearly six feet tall, probably outweighs me by at least 150 pounds, and is-as the adorably descriptive but perhaps a little vulgar British saying goes-built like a brick shithouse. The woman has the shoulders of a quarterback and the temperament of Attila the Hun. And there she was-in my face.

Oh, hello, I said. I couldn't resist following that up with "do you have a problem with chickpeas?" Duh.

"You said in your blog (she reads my blog-and hasn't beaten the crap out of me. Yet) that British men have testicles the size of chickpeas." Blimy-I didn't know that she could read, much less find my blog. "That's what I said". "And how many have you examined?" she demanded (with a great deal of hostility, I might add).

I took a poll of every woman I know-and more than a few men, too-and they polled everyone they know. And, I'll tell you, if I shagged enough men to have definitive proof, I'd be in the hospital-in intensive care.

"My brother-in-law is very well endowed, and he's English", she said. And she went on to say that his testicles were more like walnuts than chickpeas. What? Brown and wrinkly? Eww...Now I thought: gotcha.
"Well, Annie, you told me that you're gay. So why are you examining your brother-in-law's testicles? Are you a bit of a pervert-or is he trying to convert you?" I was taking a risk now-but some big security guard was standing nearby, so I figured that I would take the chance. Besides that, I was standing in the bottled water aisle.

Annie turned beet red-so red that I wondered if she was going to hit me or simply rupture something. Add to this the fact that we were attracting an audience (Annie has a voice like a bullhorn), she just glared at me and turned around and left. I've been looking over my shoulder ever since.

Like I told you: shitstorm.

Life since then has been pretty uneventful. The huge bandage is off my leg now, replaced by a small waterproof dressing, and I can have a shower. Finally. Simple things, but how they are missed when you suddenly don't have them. For nearly seven weeks, I've had to strip wash: a bowl of soapy water and a washcloth had to do, and I kept looking fondly at the shower. Plus, I had to wash my hair in the kitchen sink. Oh joy- when my nurse took the dressing off and replaced it with a waterproof one, the first thing I did was go home and stand under a hot shower until my skin was the consistency of a prune.

As long as I don't fall over-and as long as some imbecile doesn't knock me over-I'm okay now.  I'd like to be able to say that life returns to normal-but since when has my life been normal?

Good thing I look very innocent-you'd never know that I carry a can of every woman's best friend: mace.