When I was at school I was profoundly accident prone. If someone was going to trip over, fall down stairs, fall up stairs, walk into a wall, slam a finger in a door or cut themselves I was your girl.
In the summer holidays heading into Year 4 I broke my arm roller-skating. This was the second time I’d broken my arm, the first being at around 2 1/2-3 when I was trying to climb up the rope ladder to our cubby house and my brother was coming down. My brother won that round.
In Year 7 I slipped over in the playground and put a metal stake through my foot, narrowly missing the tendon. If I’d done that then I could have called this blog Floppy Foot!
The day after getting off crutches I slipped off a chair I was running over (I know, I know, WHAT! We were 13 years old!) and gouged out part of my eyebrow. More stitches.
The following year (I think) I came off a motorbike in the paddock of a friend’s farm, showing off to the other girls who had also come to stay. Apart from damaging my hand (hitting a fence-post) and having some wicked friction burns on my legs (flying along the ground) I caught my lip on the barbed wire fence. More stitches.
It probably had a lot to do with mum getting my eyes checked in Year 9.
I am, by all accounts, a complete and utter klutz. That I never dropped one of our children when they were wee is evidence that miracles can happen.
So while some of my penchant for accidents has abated over the years, every now and then I like to relive the memories. Take this last week for instance:
Exhibit A – the ankle:
Yes, that is bruising all the way up my leg. I rolled my ankle Saturday a week ago. It still hurts like a bastard and the bruising is nothing if not spectacular. All the way down to my pinky, all around the ankle and all the way around my leg to half-way up my calf. Mum is convinced I have cracked or chipped a bone. Note to self: x-ray this week.
It’s disconcerting when the only part of my I can term ‘thin’ – my ankles – are not complying.
Exhibit B Â – the thumb:
This is what your thumb looks like when about five Ikea Ivar shelves collapse onto it. From a height. Also? Hurts like a bastard.
Exhibit C – the left pointer:
This is what my left pointer finger looks like after it came off second best to a furi knife cutting up parsley (to be tossed with the Brussel Sprouts I wasÂ sautÃ©ing in some butter).Â Be grateful I’m not posting a pic of the pinky-finger-sized piece of flesh and nail I retrieved from the parsley. You always know you’ve done a right job when the blood comes pouring through the band-aids for hours after the event. Yup, hurts like a bastard.
So that’s three right?
Let us not talk of the pin-head-sized nick on Chef’s dodgy leg (just up and a little to the left of The Skin Graft) that this morning bled PROFUSELY – like SPURTING – which had me needing a good lie down and some fresh air. Although that could have been my shock as normally when I’m summoned to the bedroom by Chef it’s to marvel at his big huge bedshark NOT a bath sheet SOAKED in blood. Surprise!