CAN you remember that poem about the sair finger by Walter Wingate? You know, that one that went, "you’ve hurt your finger, puir wee man, your pinkie, deary me"?
Well, your correspondent has actually fractured his finger. Fear not, though. In an act of incredible valour, which really should be rewarded with a Victoria Cross but has not even earned a sympathetic slice of Victoria Sponge, I’m wincing, grimacing and cursing through minor discomfort to bring you the Tuesday column.
