Ow is the winter of ow discontent

I'm currently toying with the idea of a television series spin-off from Masterchef - I call it Disasterchef. Not, as the name might suggest, involving cooks engaging in culinary feats of derring do in the middle of earthquakes or bushfires or volcanic eruptions and the like - though then again that idea has merit too - and not actually involving any chefs either. It would just have me. In my kitchen. Because, let me tell you, there's plenty of disasters waiting to happen.

A week or so ago I burnt my wrist while re-lighting the stove. To top that off, just a few days after that, I grated my middle finger along with some cheese. Not to be outdone, just two days ago I was waxing my cheese - waxing is always a disaster when I'm involved - and foolishly poured all of the hot wax into a plastic container, clearly because I thought the kitchen was far too clean. The wax predictably melted a hole right in the bottom of the container and spilled all over the floor, and, being red, the kitchen soon resembled a particularly charnel scene at the hospital. And, just today, opening a can of Minestrone soup, I (ow) cut my (ow) other middle finger (ow) so that (ow) now every (ow) word (ow) I (ow) type (ow) reminds (ow) me (ow) of it (ow) and I'm not even (ow) sure (ow) what I'm (ow) doing at this keyboard any(ow)more.

Honestly, it's getting so between the blood-coloured red wax, the blood-coloured minestrone soup, and the blood-coloured, um, blood, I can't even see the kitchen anymore.