Moissac (France) - August
So, where was I? Oh, yes, I'd just arrived at a factory in France to start work packing plums. The boss led me through vast room after room until we came to
the one I was to be stationed in for the next month. In the middle, stood a long line of machinery
surrounded at various intervals by about ten workers.
Encounter with a stapler
I was put on the final section where workers were stapling cellophane wrappers onto plum-filled crates and loading them onto trolleys. For the first couple of hours, everything went fine. I was getting
into a rhythm. Whack, whack, whack; three staples to secure the cellophane
wrapper onto one side of the crate. Whack, whack, whack; three staples on the
other side. Whack, whack, whack. Whack, whack, whack. And it was then that the
unfortunate incident occurred. I was in the act of swinging my arm strongly
downwards to hit a staple into the box when the lady behind me knocked my
elbow. So, instead of hitting the crate, I hit my forefinger that was
holding down the cellophane. I examined my finger in shock. There, embedded in
the fleshy part of my nail, was a perfectly positioned staple. I could not have
done it more neatly if I had tried. Pain surged through my finger; I had not
only injected a staple into my nail, I had also hit it extremely forcefully
with a heavy metal object.
At that moment,
the supervisor walked past and I had no option but to hold out my finger. I
tried to explain that the woman behind me had bumped into me at the crucial
moment. However, in my distress, i was lost for words and could not remember the
French for either ‘knock’ or ‘elbow’. So I was left to say “she…” and wave in
the direction of the woman. To my great annoyance, the culprit remained silent.
If it had been me, I would have been greatly apologetic. As it were, I was left
looking extremely stupid; the ‘anglaise’ who, on her very first day, had managed to
staple her own finger. Oh, the humiliation.
A French hospital visit
The supervisor
walked me back through vast room after room until we reached the office of the
boss, the last person I wished to see right then. (See previous blog post Manual labour and French forms )
She took the news with a
weary air; I had no doubt lived up to her expectations. I was driven to a local
nearby hospital by another employee. Healthcare in France is to a degree
private. And it is thus a rather different experience
than a trip to the NHS. I sat in a small comfortable waiting room which was empty apart from
myself. After only ten minutes, I was shown into a consulting room. Well, that was certainly better than the typical four hour wait in the NHS! There are, however,
disadvantages of a private health system, namely it isn’t free. With this in
mind, I was concerned that, since I had no social security number, I would not
be covered by the factory’s insurance. To whom would the bill then fall? To the
factory? To me? Either way, it was clear that I was not going to be invited
back to work there. Sacked on my first day, that was a record for me.
“Oh, the new
fashion!” remarked a doctor jovially as he entered the room and saw my stapled
nail. I forced a smile for his sake but I was feeling far from cheerful. He
injected a local anaesthetic into my finger. I am sure that I later benefited
from the pain relief it brought. However, in that moment, the extra pain
brought from sticking a needle into a place which has little flesh really did
not seem worth it. After deftly removing the staple, he proceeded to wrap my
finger in copious amounts of sticking plaster, wrapping each layer over the
previous one in a crisscross pattern at the front. At the end, I looked like I
had a small banana protruding from my hand. I had not had an x-ray. Yet I wondered
if the doctor perhaps suspected my finger was fractured since this is the way
my thumb was bandaged when I broke it aged twelve. I say when I broke it but it would be more accurate
to say when my friend broke it. We were in a hockey lesson at school when the
ball came whizzing toward us. My friend took a whack at it with her hockey
stick, missed and hit me on the thumb instead.
My host, Dominique, came to pick me
up having received a phone call from the factory. More humiliation and
explanation. To my great surprise, however, apparently I had worked hard and
the factory would have me back the following day. I had been my usual diligent self. Still, I can only imagine that
they were mightily low on staff. And even more fortunately, I never received a bill for my visit to the hospital, phew.