I was feeling pretty awesome – a whole week of work, foot feeling good.. yup. Top o’ the world, so to speak. Until yesterday night.
Sometimes, at the gaffer’s direction, one moves BFLs* just beyond the reach of the head or power feeders, but not far enough to justify completely wrapping up said feeder. When this happens, most of us usually just drape the feeder through the bale of the light so it’s easy to pull out again but off the ground so the stand rolls without dragging the cable (which is bad for the cable and the connectors). This works great (and saves time), but yesterday after I’d moved my BFL and started to pull out the feeder, it got away from me and the hard Bakelite connector hit my foot, right on the spot where the incision was where the nerves are still regenerating (or degenerating or something) and which is still spectacularly sensitive to the touch.
There’s regular pain, there’s burn pain and then there’s ‘I just dropped something on a nerve end’ pain. Guess which one is the worst?
As the world tilted and turned pale, I clutched the light stand, eyes bulging, teeth gritted, knees weak, trying desperately to hold in the awful word I really wanted to scream (the producer was standing right behind me and the last thing I need is another lecture from the studio’s PC patrol) while my co-workers tried to simultaneously move lights for the set-up and make sure I was okay.
The really mean (or funny, depending on how you look at these things) part of the joke here is that it was near the end of the night and I had just changed into my comfy shoes, which are very soft and squishy but not really designed to protect one’s feet from falling objects or one’s own stupidity.
As soon as I was able to walk again without cursing whichever cruel god did this, I managed to gimp around until we’d finished the set-up, and then excused myself, went outside the stage and let loose with that swearing I’d been so wanting.
Once the nerves stopped screaming, everything was fine and there doesn’t seem to be any permanent damage to anything other than my already bruised dignity.
Call time: 8 am.
Wrap time: 11 pm.
Today, as I was in the pool swimming laps, I missed a work call and by the time I got out, got dried off and checked the phone the slot had gone to someone else. Damn, damn. I don’t want to take the phone poolside with me for obvious reasons. I’ve looked at some of those waterproof plastic bag things, but I’m not sure I trust them.
I’ve got to work out something, though. I hate missing work calls.
*Big Fucking Light