My Olympic dream, shattered...
If you think about it, I could've been flying out to Beijing about now...

Back when I was about seven years old, my sister and I used to obsessively spend our days - and nights - performing a variey of acrobatic manoeuvres that, if we were older teen sisters, could have easily got us featured on any number of unsalubrious web sites. I was a master of the forward roll, an expert at the straight handstand and a balancing queen. We would swing from branches like trapeze artists, nimbly gambol along crumbling walls, and leap and land perfectly on the ground, arms extended in triumphant joy. Our futures were bright. We would be world-class gymnasts - yes! - our only possible disadvantage being that we weren't Eastern European.

One fateful night, after my mother had tucked us into bed, we decided to extend our usual acrobatic routine around the bedroom. This night it would involve climbing up the shelves in the alcove, along the narrow iron frame of the bed, over the chest of drawers and a leap from table to bed again where we would finish with a stylish trampolining front pike.

All went well scaled the lofty heights of the bookshelves. My sister applauded as I delicately yet firmly pointed my dainty toes along the bedstead (a trick I occasionally put to good use in later life). The chest of drawers was an easy step and I decisively pushed forward to the table - but no! Overconfident, I forgot that the table had been polished that morning, and my feet slid from under me and I landed dazed on the floor, my only thought being the hope that my mother hadn't heard the thump and wouldn't come rushing upstairs to thump me for being out of bed.

Then I noticed the blood. Somehow, whether it was on the corner of the table or caused by my own damn teeth, I had cut my tongue. I stared in astonishment as blood seeped out of my mouth. Who knew tongues could bleed so much? It was like a stormdrain disgorging water - the flow just did not stop. I did the first thing I could think of in terms of self-preservation: I stuffed my vest in my mouth.

Ten minutes later as I sat forlornly on the side of the bed, a limp cotton vest saturated deep red hanging from my lips, my sister and I made the brave decision to approach my mother. Downstairs we stumbled, me assuming the face of a suffering martyr, and as I lifted the latch on the kitchen door I watched my mother's face drain pale as she beheld her eldest daughter, vest-less and bleeding, cry "MMMHH mmhh Mm Mhh Mh Mh-mh-mh-mh" ["Mammy, I hurt my to-o-o-o-o-ongue"]. Fortunately she bought our story about how I slipped when getting up to adjust how ajar the door was (a common practice amongst children that age). There was talk of doctors and hospitals and stiches. She made me sit with ice in my mouth til the bleeding stopped, which was about 100 years later, though may actually have been about ten minutes more.

You'll all be pleased to hear that my tongue made a full recovery. At least, I've had no complaints yet. Quite the opposite, in fact - but they don't have an Olympic competition for that.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 7 Aug 2008, 15:16, Reply)