Making dinner means dicing with danger, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take

I am fond of my all cooking scars – they are my life in the kitchen, written on the body

There were a few seconds, immediately after the blade sliced deep into the tip of my left index finger and shortly before the blood began to gush, when I merely watched. There always seems to be a moment like this following an injury in the kitchen; a stillness, before the crisis management kicks in, when we are lost in bafflement at our clumsiness or stupidity or just plain bad luck.

In this case, it was a mixture of all three. My knife skills do not deserve the name. I am a home cook, not a trained chef, and I haven’t quite mastered the business of folding my finger tips under while resting my knuckles against the blade. I was shredding spring onions. I was distracted. Now I was injured.