Shit.

So, the other night, I posted about the vibrant, glorious success of the Desert Monkey socks. Remember? Do you need a minute to go back and read that post, so we can all recall how happy I was with the whole thing?

So I cast on the second sock. Had the toe completely worked, and had just begun to work the lace pattern over the instep. I left it on the floor while I had my dinner.

M came in, carrying a delicious bowl of hot pumpkin soup for me. He gasped, stumbled, and held up a foot with a DPN embedded inches deep.

See that bend in the DPN there? That's the part that was inside his foot. It's a miracle he didn't hit any arteries or tendons or something.

He took care of the removal of the DPN while I looked away, and I gathered gauze (I did a first aid course a year or two ago, and have a weirdly huge supply of gauze on hand) and tamped it onto his poor, abused foot to stem the bleeding. There was a lot of blood at first, but then it stopped, so we decided not to go to Emergency; we cleaned it up, disinfected it and put a fresh wad of gauze down and I bandaged his foot.

I feel awful. My poor, croissant-baking housemate. I keep offering to make tea and fluff pillows. I know it's not like I stabbed him myself, but I still kind of feel responsible. Sorry M.

Collateral damage: the DPN he had wedged into his foot was a live needle, with 16 merry stitches that suddenly found themselves orphaned. I was able to rescue them, although the use of gauze was not required for that first aid. The second Desert Monkey continues unhindered, although I feel a little guilty for how much I love it, considering all the blood loss it caused.