So. Just another quiet weekend at Farty Towers. Up at 7:30 on Saturday morning for a pee. Dither over whether to stay up. For about a nanosecond. Wake up again at 9:30, that's more like it. Make bacon sandwiches. You get the idea.
Blah blah blah Britain's Got Talent crap except for that little black girl blah blah.
Blah blah blah Eurovision. Denmark's attempt to clone Ronan Keating - creepy; Germany using a stripper to boost their vote - FAIL. Russia - as host, superb production values; their own entry - not so much. France - completely forgettable1. Spain sitting there all alone on nul points until neighbouring Andorra took pity and gave them twelve. Nope, not political at. all. UK could have done better if Andrew Lloyd Webber had stayed off stage.
And well done to Alistair Darling's love-child on pulling it off for Norway.
Anyway. Today. I've made roast chicken, parsnips, boiled potatoes, carrots, sweetcorn and gravy, nothing fancy. Mrs F compliments me on my cooking. Little Miss F has just gone outside for some fresh air. Drummer Boy 2 goes to check up on her, then comes running back inside.
"What?" asks Mrs F, "tell me what's wrong!"
Not a word comes from him, although his face has gone a funny colour.
LMF comes running in behind him, all in a panic. By this time he's bending over, facing away from us and pointing to his back. Mrs F realises what's wrong and thumps him on the back. "Has that cleared it?" He shakes his head.
This is where Mr Farty steps up to the mark, puts his nose to the grindstone and leaps into action. I ♥ mixing metaphors. Read this bit from the bottom up.
Step up behind. Hug below ribcage. Squeeze. Hard. Again. Take a bow.
So yeah, I just totally saved someone's life. Fuck me.
Having choked up the piece of chicken that was stuck in his throat, he then showed his Scotch credentials and asked for ice cream.
"Christ, how can you be thinking about pudding at a time like this?" I asked.
"Naw, it's for my sore throat," he croaked. "That bit chicken scratched it on the way up."
So Mrs F called NHS 24 and told them all about our little drama, including me giving DB the Hymen Manoeuvre to dislodge the chicken. "What? Oh, Heimlich. Right." And they asked him to drop in for a checkup.
Anyway, he's just been to A&E3 to get it checked out and they say he'll be fine. Just so long as he remembers to chew before swallowing.
1 No, really. I don't remember the French song. Was it any good?
2 I've decided to call him this at least until he marries my daughter. It's shorter than Potential Second Son-In-Law.