I seem to have odd spouts of accidents at the moment. Yesterday I knocked my brain into the sink when I walloped my head on the corner of the kitchen cupboard door and an hour later smashed the glass salt seller too. I decided to vacate to the sofa lest I turn the light on and burn the house down.
After reassuring myself that hemming my knuckles with the sewing machine would be a highly unlikely situation I altered the rest of my beloved Heyday trousers to fit, mended 2 vintage dresses and watched Hart’s War with Mr. Mew; balancing an ice pack on my head.
It is most peculiar when you bosh your bonce. In horror movies, blood spurts out of the wound like an Italian courtyard fountain. This creates a visual spectacle equal to the pain. Although the pain was excruciating, there was no blood, no graze, no bump… nothing to show anyone why I was shouting ‘Ow’ other than holding my head and pointing at the cupboard door like a 3 year old. In fact I was so stunned I couldn’t even say owt.
I am sure as a child we were made of sponge balls. I would have knock after knock; suffer bruised knees, picked scabs and fashion a plethora of first aid plasters, but after a quick hug from Ma and a loving squeeze I would bounce back ready for the next accident. As an adult, I hit my head and I’m not able to do anything for half the flipping day. Where have my sponge balls gone?!?!