Didn't need ASBOs in my day, we had Antiseptics
Me, aged 9, swinging in my back garden on that childhood delight: a swing made out of frayed blue rope, a tree and an old milk crate.

The rope snapped, of course. I thumped my skull, hard.

But the real pain came when my shocked hands clenched into an epic DEATH-GRIP on the swing. I'd have been fine if I'd been able to make myself let go; instead the unfeeling laws of motion viciously dragged me backwards across 4 metres of rough, gritty concrete.

Remember all those little scrapes you got when a child? Those nasty, painful little gritty things?

Ok, hold that memory and now enlarge it from your shoulder blade to butt-cheek in one huge raw wound.

I had my t-shirt literally shredded off me; they tell me I had left a grotesque trail of skin and blood on the concrete for the full 4 metres.

Childhood language isn't up to describing this kind of thing: I could only stagger over to mummy, dribbly-eyed and bleating I had 'scraped my back'. I looked OK from the front, so it was with weary patience that Mummy dearest got out of her deckchair to examine her bratling, only to visibly blench when she turned me around. She says my entire back resembled broken corned beef.

To crown it all, in order to wash my wounds and lever out the grit, the only antiseptic available = TCP. Oh god, the pain!

It had hurt enough already, but this was like being whipped by ropes of piss-drenched stinging nettles.

TCP: more efficient than super-nanny and a thousand ASBOs. No more cheeky swinging for me. Seriously, not EVER.
(IChewCandlewax, Fri 30 Jul 2010, 11:17, 1 reply)

"Whipped by ropes of piss-drenched stinging nettles"
You should be grateful, young man. Just think what a dominatrix would have charged.

*click*
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Fri 30 Jul 2010, 14:36, closed)