When life hands you a lemon, make lemonade. But when life throws you a gem of a tale too good to miss, make everyone else’s life lemonade. That’s my motto, and I’m sticking to it. I’m basically a little spreader of joy. A spreader of joy and a handy hinter as well, mark you.

I received a rather alarming instant message from a friend while I was at work the other day. It simply said “how do you get blood out of carpet?”

Having experience in this realm when my large dog back in Sydney cut her paws on the glass of a window shattered during a particularly spectacular hailstorm and she thence proceeded to follow me around the house bedaubing every room, I know all about getting blood out of carpet. I have two words of wisdom for you all: “club soda.” No rubbing, no scrubbing, just pour it on, and blood be gone.

So, being the helpful sort I am, I gave him the response he sought, but couldn’t resist following it up with the natural question “what the hell happened?”

Well apparently he’d decided a little grooming was in order, and while faffing around the bathroom, he thought that his – erm – private area, shall we say, was getting a little hairier than he’d quite like, so took to himself with a pair of scissors, all the while viewing the process in the bathroom mirror.

Well that’s just a recipe for disaster right there, now isn’t it?

Sure enough, the mirror image and sharp object had a small altercation, and one of “The Boys” incurred a bit of a snip where no snipping without anesthetic and a damned fine surgeon should take place.

With tears of laughter now running freely down my cheeks, I asked him if the soda water worked, but was told in a rather terse tone that he couldn’t move off his chair as his nether regions were well cushioned with paper towels, tissues, gauze and any other absorbent material close to hand. I suspect he may in fact be sitting on the cat.

Well, as you can imagine, that set me off on another round of now totally breathless laughter, to the point that my office workers came rushing to my aid, thinking I was copiously weeping.

He kept trying to insist to me that it wasn’t funny, but I parried his verbal thrust with the confirmation that yes indeed, it was hilarious.

I’ve since spoken to my friend’s wife, and she agreed that her husband had a moment of blithering idiotdom, his having far too much time on his hands to come up with this pearl of an idea for blind grooming in a delicate spot with a weapon.

She and I are going to try to contrive a way, once he’s fully healed and recovered, to get him to the local salon for a Brazilian. Or to at least try to discover a non-stinging depilatory for the poor boy.

Oh dear, that really did just bring tears to even my eyes.

Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at anniedearkc@hotmail.com.