Then I shook it.
But I got away with it. The skin of my hand prickled for a while, but I look at it this morning and it's fine. No blistering or peeling. I'm one lucky sumofabitch.
I'm reminded of an earlier accident. The one where I set fire to the cooker. The cat alerted us to it. She was sitting gazing down the corridor with her head to one side. I went to check on what it was she found so interesting and- ohmigod- a room full of orange smoke. And that peasanty wicker-work thing we had hung on the wall behind the cooker (smart- eh?) was snapping and crackling and sending big flames curving up towards the ceiling.
It's a high ceiling, thank goodness, and the flames didn't quite reach.
The pan of oil was blazing like a Christmas pudding and I did what you're not supposed to do and grabbed the handle and tried to carry it to the back door.
I didn't get very far. The flames streamed back over my hand. I dropped the pan on the couch and melted great holes in the fabric. My hand was a mess.
I should have run. Instead I did the other thing you're not supposed to do and slung water about.
Well the cooker got fried, but the fire was out by the time the fire brigade arrived. Whats a little smoke inhalation between friends? I hid my hand because I hate, hate, hate the accident and emergency unit. And I got a story out of it in which I feature as lovably brave but stupid.