I was cutting some cheese for a sandwich... it was close to the end of the block of cheese so was a bit thin. As I was making the cut it... toppled... and the knife ran across the top of my left forefinger's nail.

"That didn't feel good" I thought as I clamped my other hand over the wound. A quick peek showed I'd sliced completely through the nail, breaking it in two, and into the flesh below. I scrabbled in the drawer for a large plaster and applied it then dashed to get my coat. As my hand pushed through the sleeve a spray of blood flicked across the kitchen. The plaster wasn't holding.

I grabbed a wad of kitchen towel, jammed my hand into it and, clenching it tightly, locked my front door and hot-footed it around the corner to the Doctor's.

"Hi", I said in what I hoped were calm tones to the receptionists, "I've just sliced the end of my finger off..."

"You should go to the hospital then", she suggested.

"I've just moved into the area... where is it?"

"Er... I think it's somewhere in that direction - Queen Elizabeth's it's called", she replied, pointing north.

"Ah... I think I drove past it the other day." Thanking them for their help, I exited in the direction of my car and set off, pretty sure I knew the hospital they meant.

At the A&E department, I parked in the last available space and shoved £6 in the meter to cover five hours or more in case it was busy. Inside, I gave my details to a woman behind reception and was told I could see the Triage Nurse.

On the wall there was a US Terror Alert-Level-esque chart showing that for minor injuries the wait was an hour and a half and for major and the Triage Nurse thirty minutes each. I amused myself during the wait by trying to read a newspaper with one hand.

The Triage Nurse examined the damaged digit and said I'd have to get it properly wrapped - but I couldn't have stitches because of the nail being in the way. For the wait, my finger was wrapped in an anti-septic-soaked bandage - if I peeped through the end I could see the bifurcated nail... Before I left to go back to the waiting room, we discussed car parking. Apparently I wouldn't get a refund for supplying my own transport to hospital; in fact, the staff even had to pay for car parking if they drove.

Back in the waiting room, I phoned work and my little brother to pass on the news and whiled away the minutes playing Monopoly on my mobile. Eventually I was called into the minor injuries section. I was informed I'd need a tetanus shot and a nurse set to examining my finger which, once unwrapped and cleaned, I took a quick snapshot of.

Repair consisted of, essentially, squishing the two bits back together and then anchoring them together with "steristrips"™. The finger was then wrapped in a bandage and I was advised to "keep it dry and get it changed in a week to ten days".

Keeping it dry is problematic. I purchased some "finger stalls" from Boots. These are plastic finger-sized tubes with an elastic strap that wraps around your wrist. They work pretty well apart from one important flaw: they make your finger sweat like Gary Glitter at a Cub Scout Jamboree. I've only been using them when doing the washing up. More difficult to negotiate is a shower. To keep things dry here I found that when secured around the wrist by insulating tape, the mylar bags that US comics are delivered in provides an effective barrier.

So then, this explains why I met the postman this morning dressed only in my pyjama bottoms with a plastic bag taped to my left hand. Any other accusation is a base canard.