A true story about a boy who cut off his toe in order to test the reliability of public transport.

The theme for the this issue of the Don’t Panic magazine is Trust. And if you can’t trust public transport then what can you trust? Ever since Ken has been gaffer I haven’t been late for work once. But with the mayoral elections looming, what better way to test Ken’s success than to cut off my toe and use only the bus network to get me to hospital in time for them to sew it back on? According to the internets it takes 45 minutes before a severed body part becomes medically dead and impossible to graft back on. 

If you’re going to mutilate yourself, you have to do it properly. I wanted it to be as quick and painless as possible... obviously. After careful deliberation I decided against bolt or cigar cutters in favour of chisel and mallet. 

I lay my leg on the edge of the coffee table in our lounge and my flatmate Jay lined up the hammer and chisel with the middle toe on my left foot. Taking no risks, we had a medic present. Well, I say medic… she wanted to be a dentist when she was younger. The elastic bands had stopped the blood flow and my toe was becoming numb. “Okay are you ready?” Jay asked.  I told him I was, but I wasn’t really. Biting down on a roll of cling film, I watched as Jay raised the hammer. It was time to put my trust in public transport… 

Well if you fail to plan mutilating yourself, then you're planning to fail.

“Okay-are you ready?” Jay asked.  I told him I was, but I wasn’t really. Biting down on a roll of cling film, I watched as Jay raised the hammer. It seemed to drop in slow motion and then smashed into the top of the chisel with a horrible crunch. The head of the chisel went straight through my toe and into the table with such force that the handle broke off in Jay’s hand. There was no blood, thanks to the elastic bands, but my toe was now 90 percent severed, with only a thin strip of skin holding it on. I felt faint. But I didn’t want to be late for the bus because, as we all know, bus drivers are assholes and will leave you standing no matter how much blood is pouring out of your shoe… 

My flat is about five minutes walk, and probably 15 minutes limp away from the bus stop. That gave the number 6 bus a whole half an hour to get me and my toe to the hospital… normally only a 15 minute journey. Even if you include traffic and any possible problems (dog running away with toe/toe getting dropped down drain etc) it should have been a cakewalk.   

This is one way of turning your toes blue, with a blue-tinted light. Another is by removing it from your foot via hammer and chisel and waiting until it dies completely (45 minutes).

When I got to the bus stop, the 21 arrived first. But I checked the route and it definitely had the hospital as its final destination. I had only been waiting for five minutes, so that left 25 minutes to get to the hospital and get the toe re-attached.   

Everything was running smoothly, until I looked out the window and saw my house sailing past. Rats! If I had researched the buses properly, then I could have saved myself the 15 minute limp to the stop. 

Halfway there and an old lady halted the bus for AGES as she clambered on board with her shopping. I wanted to scream at her to hurry-the-fuck-up, but that would have breached the rules of the experiment. Old ladies with shopping are pretty standard variables that have to be taken into account. 

I know bus drivers can be assholes at the best of times but at a time like this you would think they'd give a guy a break.

I arrived at the hospital with only a few minutes to spare. I staggered in and noticed t was empty...  “Oh dear, you look like you need some help.” I spun around and was confronted with two security guards, one fat and one thin. I told them the gruesome story, and for some reason they sympathised. I was still confused as to the apparent lack of any hospital staff, but my concerns were soon answered when the security guards informed me that I was in the wrong place. As it turns out I was in a cancer ward. As if to prove the point a crying seven-year-old was rushed through the double doors into an operating ward swerving and only narrowly avoiding me. "my toe hurts and is never going to work again," I thought to myself.  

My toe is broked and it's never going to work again (true story).

By the time we arrived at the correct hospital, I was certain that the ship had sailed when it came to my toe. It was 5.43pm, almost an hour over schedule. I couldn’t, however, mark this down as a failure for the public transportation network. If I had researched timetables and bus stops properly, not to mention aimed for the right hospital, then I would have made it with time to spare in the hospital gift shop. My toe was hanging off, and was certainly dead, but the very helpful nurse sewed it back together and gave me some drugs to take for the next month. I hope I’m still going to get paid for this as I really need some new trainers. 

There is nothing the editor feels he can add to this, except to advise that you don't ever cut off your toes.