One Sore Little Finger

It takes a lot to make my blood boil but I am furious right now.

My poor Angelica is sitting with her new cuddly toy and a rare chocolate biscuit, telling her daddy all about the plaster on her finger. She's a very hardy young lady, rarely ever gets hurt or sick and when she does she takes it in her stride, but she had a horrible experience in the supermarket this afternoon that's left me fuming.

She was happily walking along beside me one minute and crying her eyes out the next as her finger caught on a sharp piece of metal jutting out from a chiller cabinet. The next thing I knew there was blood dripping everywhere, my strong little girl was screaming like crazy and Natasha was in tears because her sister was upset. I tried frantically to clean and wrap her finger with clean tissues but between the blood soaking through and Angelica feeling so upset bits of tissue just seemed to start flying everywhere.

Here's the bit that made me angry. Two shop assistants walked right by without doing anything or asking if we needed help. They could easily see that Angelica was hurt and could hear me talking loudly about needing plasters - they even looked at us - but just passed by. There was also a mother with two children in the same aisle, just behind us, who stood staring. I thought the mother at least would ask if everything was OK but instead she gave her a dirty look, as though she was just being naughty. There is a huge difference between an 'I'm going to have a tantrum' cry and an 'I've really hurt my finger and I need a plaaaaaaaaasteeeeeeeeer!' cry. It was like Angelica's injury became a spectator sport!

I tried to track down someone to help, hoping someone would issue us with a plaster at the very least, but to no avail. Apparently, "Can you help my daughter?" has become a secret code for rush-down-the-next-aisle. In the end I had to take what we already had to the check-out and try to pay as fast as possible so I could go and buy some plasters. We had been queuing (and crying) for five whole minutes before one of the assistants at a different checkout even turned in our direction. By this point I was at the front of the queue and had to pay for our things so her offer of calling for the person in charge of the first aid kit came far too late.

Some plasters were duly acquired from the chemist next door and I dressed her finger quickly. A call home to daddy, a new toy and a chocolaty treat all helped to stop the tears but there's going to be an angry letter heading in the direction of a certain supermarket before too long.