Golden Luckenbooth

One

"Dammit, you eejit," I stuff my glove under my armpit as I look at my skin to see if there's a blister. Seeing nothing, I shove the bulky glove back on, picking up the axe again. I'm imprisoned in a catch-22. It's too cold in the house without firewood, but by the time I get enough wood chopped to warm the house, my body temperature will be sufficient. No fire needed. But if I don't chop the wood, it will be too cold in the house, and I'll freeze – only to be found by my cousin when she comes in on Wednesday to take care of the filing. I double up with my erratic hair shoved haphazardly into a wool hat plus the hood from my heavy coat, vowing to get the bloody heating fixed tomorrow. Probably need to bleed the radiators or some equally ridiculous thing. None of which I have time for.

Raising the axe over my head, I bring it down on the head of the log, splitting the wood right in two. The anger that boils inside me over my earlier near-fatal mistake is the perfect fuel. Anyone could have confused phenylephrine and diphenhydramine when they're right next to each other on the same shelf. Both clear liquids. Both exactly 1ml. Identical bottles.

One is an antihistamine used to treat a severe allergic reaction. The other is a vasoconstrictor for high blood pressure.

Should have taken the time to read the labels. Fuck.

Thank goodness the patient is okay – that I caught my error in time.

THWACK! Another log split, and I'm in a rhythm now.

"Excuse me, sir," an English voice interrupts my self-flagellation, startling me.

Twisting so quickly that I lose my balance, I nearly sever the bloke's top half from his bottom with my axe. Which would be a shame. 'Cause he's got a body that makes me want to climb him like a tree.

Alright, yes. I'm objectifying this stranger who has mysteriously appeared on my land with no warning whatsoever. Sue me. I've not had a quality snog in ages.

"Bloody hell!" I yell, screeching over my shoulder, "Shortbread! Piper! Get your bloody arses..." Before I can finish the sentence, my two golden retrievers vigorously escape the woods, running to the stranger and barking loudly at him, their tails wagging furiously as they beg to be stroked.

Add another facepalm to this shitstorm of a day.

"Sure, you bloody beasts. Now you come to protect me – by using your tails as deadly weapons." Removing my gloves, I survey the man from feet to head. A man's shoes say a lot about him, and this one is wearing what looks to be expensive loafers. But his scraggly facial hair would indicate that his hole-filled jeans and vintage Rolling Stones tee are who he really is.

Shock registers on his face. "Sorry! I thought you were — from behind with that bulky coat and hood – I mean, ummm..." Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he gets a sheepish look on his face. "Sorry. I'm Harry."

I nod, wondering what the bloody hell this Harry wants with me. He gestures with his thumb to a car. "I need the vet. The dog accidentally ate some grapes."

"What?" Without waiting, I approach the vehicle, grasping the door handle and flinging open the back door. Wrapped in a blanket is a giant deerhound, whimpering. With both arms, I pick up the dog, my heart pounding. "How long ago? How many did he eat?"

"Like fifteen minutes," comes the slow drawl, and I rush towards the door of the house, wishing the man would speak faster to match the urgency in my footsteps. I also wish he would offer to carry the hound who must weigh almost 9 stone. "Don't know how many. I dropped some on the floor, and then the phone rang, and I didn't realise right away." He continues in that glacial pattern of speech that makes me want to kick him in the balls to get him to talk more rapidly.