Last Time
I did something worse mentioning back in year 9. It was the week before SATS, and I was going to fail. Hard. I had stayed in my full fledged 'pay no attention' mode for the better part of the year, and at Latymer 'Do well or else' school, this was bad.

I was trying desperatly to think my way out my situation as I left, that miserable tuesday. Laiden down with my heavy school bag and Trumpet Case, I considered my options. Now amount of emergency revision could possibly help me now. As the rain pourewd down, I realised I was lost. My parents would be furious, and my school teachers would feel betrayed.

At this point, fully in desperation, I looked left, and saw a bus, slightly closer than I was accustomed to. With untold speed, I swung full round, and attempted to fend of the iron beast with my right hand.

I flew back several metres before coming back to earth. After what seemed like an age, I lifted my sodden frame and scarred possesions out of the road, hand burning as if I'd, well, just taken on a bus.

A man leapt from the stationary bus, and pulled me out of the road, and I shuddered to the pavement. He asked me questions around the general theme of "Are you all right?!" "Can you feel your arm?!" and "Dear God, are you OK?!". As the ringing in my ears continued, I mumbled feebly back a mixture of apologetic, painfilled and embarresed answers, all of which revolved around the theme of being "ok...."

After about 10 seconds, I was able to reclaim what little sense had been knocked out of me, and I was in a more rational state of mind. I assured the Samaritan that I was ok, and could take care of the situation, though my arm still refused to move without shooting pain through my whole body. I juddered towards the bus, and attempted to get my battered frame on board, only to be refused by the very bus driver who has hit me.

Still slightly dazed, I limped down the road, getting more and more soaked. By the end of the 20 miniute walk, I was convinced that though the pain was bad, I could handle it, to the extent that I would deal with it myself. I got onto my next bus, and spent the whole journey sitting on my hand so as to numb it, and deciding that I would not tell my parents. It's hardly a conversation piece, after all. ("Hey! I got hit by a Bus!") I got off the bus and made it home, where I set about my meager amounts of homework, made more challenging by my inability to hold a pen, without being reduced to tears. When enquired about my slow progress, I merly stated that I was 'finding it hard', and I was told to get on with it.

The next day, I was given a ride to school, sitting on my hand whenever I could. I got into school, and emmidaitly told my form teacher that I was unable to hold a pen, being that I had been hit by a bus.

I repeated this to my elderly, ill-tempered English Teacher who did not believe my story. To her, it was an elabourte rouse to get out of the English Mock she had planned for the day. After all, who gets hit by a bus?

About 15 miniutes into the mock, a fellow student went up to the Teacher and got me excused for the reason that I had broken down into tears for even trying to hold a pen. Bitterly, becasuse I was making a scene, I was sent to the medical room.

Tearfully, I explained my position to the nurse, who immidiatly called my Mother, and I was wisked off to the emergeny room. Half an hour after I arrived, I was poked repeatedly in my overly tender hand and in the lack of X-Rays, a full arm cast was administeared.

The next day, slightly more free from pain, having no longer the ability to move my arm, I walked into my English room, and stated in a voice for all to hear "I got hit by a bus, and now my arms in a cast!". My teacher looked like she'd died.

I was given the entire test week off school, and a good two after that. I moved down from cast to splint, for a further week. (At this point, it was still still a mystery what damage I had actually caused.) Finally recieving X-Rays by the worst nurse I have ever had the misfortune to meet ("Hold you hand like this." "I can't. It hurts." "Here." *Twist*) and when examined, no bones where visibly broken. A doctor stared at them and found nothing. A specalist poked my wrist to yowls of pain, and decreed that I had broken my 'Skafoid', a small bone in my wrist, between other bones. I was placed back in a cast, and I remained so for a further 2 weeks.

During this time, I was sent back to school and attempted to type with the help of a tiny laptop (The kind those irrating Yuppies use) to do work, but never actually did any. The work that I did do however, some how improved. Something to do with the fact that I was now paying attention in class.

Or so I thought. I was talked about behind closed doors, and sent away for tests in London. I was diagnosed with Mild Dyslexia and Moderate Dyspraxia, which means not only can I request a computer whenever I want, I am given a laptop in all of my exams, and extra time.

Incase your wondering, I was instantly attributed level 7's for my Sats, which I certainly would not have got.

It was the best thing I ever did.

They say size doesn't matter, but from my surveys, "It's a nice suprise."
(Lofn and Idun, Wed 14 Jun 2006, 18:33, Reply)