I must’ve been about 6 years old…

But I was allowed to walk myself to and from school as it was only a short(ish) walk (long enough for there to be no way it would be allowed nowadays though).

In fact, everybody in our class lived only a short walk away and this gave our teacher the opportunity of a delightful incentive for good behaviour. The child that had been the ‘best behaved’ all day could leave school 5 minutes early and be home in plenty of time for Dogtanion and the Three Muskerhounds.

Result.

However, as I said, this hinged on being the ‘best behaved’ child…and as those who know me will instantly understand…that was never going to be me. Never.

Now, as you can no doubt imagine, this well and truly left my cheese out in the wind.

I tried really hard to be good, really I did, but something would always come along and royally shag up my efforts…mostly by being too tempting an opportunity at mischief to miss.

But one day…one glorious day…and I don’t know (or care) whether it was an act of charity or random selection, if the teacher had got lucky / pissed / stoned the night before or that she just couldn’t bear the sight of me any more, but I was given my big chance.

“Pooflake, you little twunt,” she said, “You are allowed to go home early”

“Fucking get in there!” I exclaimed, my face lighting up with a combination of glee and total surprise.

I packed up my books and basked in the envious stares of my classmates. I was the best, and I wanted everyone to know it. In fact, I decided that just getting up and leaving was not going to be enough and I came up with the ingenious idea to wait the remaining five minutes so I could continue gloating when everybody else leaves.

Now that’s pretty dumb for a start.

As I stood in the cloakroom all alone (and unsupervised) I decided to pass the remaining time by placing my hooded parka jacket on the cold hard floor tiles and using it as some kind of surf / skateboard. The plan was to place the coat in the middle of the floor, take a big run-up, jump, land on the coat and let inertia take its happy course.

It worked perfectly…to a point…and quite an important point as it goes.

After sprinting and running down the corridor, I leapt like a mentally-retarded gazelle and stamped down on the coat, which promptly slid backwards under my feet and sent my face accelerating towards the tiles.

Now at this point I would like to mention that there is a tradition in our family…let’s call it the ‘Pooflake scar’. Every male for generations has a scar of varying size under their chin, caused by different, anecdote-inducing stories.

I am positive that this was the moment destiny decided that I was to get my scar…all I had to do was hit the ground with my chin like any normal human being would do…job done.

It appears that I am not a normal human being.

As I hurtled towards the floor, I jutted my teeth out like a spazmo caricature of Janet Street Porter and smashed them into the rock-hard floor.

How the hell anybody can hit the floor ‘teeth-first’ is still a mystery to me, but I am living ‘Darwin Awards-esque’ proof that it’s possible.

Bits of teeth shattered about the place as my cake-hole exploded into a mass of mush.

And I was alone…everybody had thought I had gone home. I had to wait another four minutes, lying there in a pool of blood, tears and teeth before the teacher came out and found me.

“Aaaarrgh!” Squealed my teacher as she opened the door and clapped her eyes on the mangled wreckage that was mini-Pooflake.

Even though I was very young, I can still remember thinking to myself: ‘This woman is not handling this situation very well’ as she ran around in circles with arms waving, not touching me but stooping to gather up bits of teeth in a hankie for the tooth fairy.

The kids all stood round silently as her panic increased and another teacher eventually came by and said: “Just call his bloody mother”.

Even the thought of Parka Jackets make me wince now…suffice to say the 90’s ‘Oasis’ trend was a very difficult time…
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Wed 2 Jan 2008, 11:30, 6 replies)

Please tell me they got out the dettol, mixed it with water and dabbed it on you with cotton wool - one of my strongest childhood school memories was of the toilets smelling of a mixture of cold metal pipes, damp coats, pee and dettol...ahh, happy memories.


*click*
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 11:36, closed)

Ouch ouchy ouchy!
My family has a similar tradition, we all have a scar in the centre of our forehead, mine gained when my brother tripped me up with a broom.

Good times. Good times.
(Tip-Top Tomcat but you can call me Tommo, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 12:09, closed)

Pooflake......
.....you are VERY clickable.
(JasperSinister is offering two tickets to the gun show, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 14:41, closed)

Superb.
My family have a tradition of scars in centre of forehead, I have 2 as I am speshul.
*clicks*
( Duke Of Belmsford has got 99 records, but Jay-Z ain't one, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 15:36, closed)

Scars.
The family scar thing is weird. I have two friends who sport scars almost identical to their Dads, as indeed do I. We both have one under our chins, slightly curved and which refuse to grow beard on them.

Dad got his slipping over and banging his chin when playing pool at university. My claim to fame is that I tripped over the red carpet laid for Mother Theresa's visit to my primary school whilst carrying my own little chair into the school hall. I never saw the lil' lady herself, but I got to wear an unfeasibly large plaster for a week which impressed my 6 year old peers far more than a visit from any wizened old nun.
(singingringingtree Living in the past., Wed 2 Jan 2008, 20:59, closed)

Nursery pain
One of my earliest memories is doing something similar at nursery.
We had a bike/trike thing and were riding it round full tilt until i crashed it into a radiator :( It hurt a lot but not quite so much as the iodine they put on it afterwards!
(The Ginger Penguin la la la la la la, Thu 3 Jan 2008, 11:26, closed)