Old salts of the sea
21st November, 2006

Some months have passed since, in an act of optimism, blind with faith and towering self belief, I bought a white rug. The purchase caused eyebrows to be raised and questions asked as to the wisdom of placing anything white within 10 metres of an area in which I might be eating, this being the approximate radius of the food fallout. I treated these doubters with the disdain they deserved while making a mental note to take particular care. All went well until recently, when I experienced what could only be described as a spot of bad luck, knocking a glass of red wine on to the white fluffy rug. It tumbled, as wine glasses do, in slow motion, arcing off the coffee table on which it had been sitting, depositing its contents on to the rug and then shattering into several hundred pieces. I'm not sure how I managed to knock it over. It's just a knack I've got, I guess. I stared at it for a few seconds, watching the deep, ruby red, six buck chuck cabernet sauvignon soak in to the arctic white of the rug and then uttered a one word obscenity, voicing it softly but with feeling, as I pondered my options. I thought of hauling it downstairs and hosing it but guessed this would only make the situation worse. I could throw it out and buy another one but it had cost too much. It was too big to fit in the washing machine and I wasn't even sure if you were supposed to wash rugs. I picked up the phone, fingers poised to call my wife at work who would, I knew, shower me with scorn. I punched in the number and she didn't disappoint me, the words "clumsy", "hopeless" and "dickhead" featuring prominently in the conversation.    "I've been called a lot worse," I said, which was true. "Just tell me what I have to do to get red wine out of a white fluffy rug."    "Salt," she said.    "Very funny. How about some pepper, olive oil and a dash of soy sauce?" I suggested tartly in response. "I want to clean the rug, not cook it."    "Salt gets rid of red wine, idiot," she said endearingly. "Then rinse it out with cold water."    "Really," I said and hung up. A minute later I called her back.    "The salt trick," I said. "Does it work with blood as well?"    "Why?" she asked.    "I just cut my hand trying to get the glass shards out of the rug," I explained.    "Dickhead," she said before hanging up. It took some time but eventually I managed to pick out the glass fragments, most of them, at least. I overlooked one that remained hidden in the fluffy strands. I know this because I stood on it the following day. That really hurt. I tossed an entire packet of salt on the rug and to my amazement it more or less worked. After 30 minutes of frantic rubbing at the stain with a wet cloth, it had largely disappeared. I was to have the last smirk, however, a short time later when we had reason to be on a boat. "Be careful," said my wife. "You know how clumsy you are." Barely had the words left her lips when she fell down a flight of steps, smashing the champagne flute she was holding as she hit the deck and twisting her ankle. As falls go, and I know what I am talking about here, it was one of the better ones.    "It's you," she said grimacing with pain and wiping blood from a cut on her hand. "These things never used to happen to me. I'm catching it from you."    "Rubbish," I said, helping her to stand on the one leg she could now use. We were away for a couple of weeks during which she recovered from her fall in time to twist her other ankle on a cobblestone. A day later she missed her footing while stepping off a kerb and came uncomfortably close to fracturing her skull, being saved only by my quick reactions and athletic dexterity. "It's you," she said, shaken by the near calamity. "It's your fault. These things never happen to me." Save someone's life and what thanks do you get.

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