Corridor rugby
Corridor rugby has been a big hit with us at school. Being very silly sixteen-year-old boys, the frantic tumble and the huge bloody pile-ups in a corridor not much more than a yard and a half wide really were our idea of an evening well spent (mostly those evenings when our resident overlords spent engaging in activities other than faithful supervision of their charges). School knew about our proclivities but never particularly bothered as nobody really ever got hurt and quite obviously there are things you just can't police effectively. It was, in other words, a time of bliss.

Fast forward to New Year's Eve of a not-so-recent year. As a sort of coming-of-age thing, I was left to organise a new year's party in our countryside house, sans parents of course. Cue bouts of music I'd be embarrassed for these days, drinking habits we'd certainly be ashamed of (for some reason, we thought that the two-per-person limits on Don the Beachcomber style Zombies was basically there for those of weaker dispositions - never mind that in terms of alcohol at least, most of us still had considerable parts of their virginity) and lots of general nonsense. In a moment of exuberant intoxication, someone beheld the Harbinger of Doom on the lawn outside: manifesting itself as a football, apparently.

Cue the six of us all falling into the eerie silence and eyes catching. Cue the ladies realising that in a minute, there will be bloodshed as sure as anything, and deciding to stay away from it if at all possible. Cue one of us - really, no-one can remember specifics of this kind anymore, and even if we would, we wouldn't intentionally entertain reminiscences of that sort for long - fetching the ball. Cue scrummage in the nearest corridor. Cue suddenly several things happening at one time: first, the 'ball, though whatever twist of fate, flying all over the place, knocking down a painting or two on its way. Second, our side breaking loose. Third, me flying hands-first into the window at the end of the corridor and shattering it into a million little pieces.

Result? As the surgeon said, I was a lucky bastard. The piece of glass lodged in my left wrist stopped millimetres from a major blood vessel and some nerves. My parents were less happy about the whole story. And none of the girls ever went to a party with any of us again. Which is a shame, some of them were fairly sweet.

Length? A bit short of an inch.
(adelie discovered the joys of a board sig on, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 17:56, 4 replies)

Hang on
When you say 'has been a big hit with us at school,' do you mean you're still at school?

If so, you're a damn good writer for someone that young. I had to look up 'proclivity.'
(clumsyeloquence is a girl, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 20:00, closed)

clumsyeloquence
he's at Toff school love.

They do big words and that there.
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 20:54, closed)

Eh
Fair point, I guess. Still impressed, though.
(clumsyeloquence is a girl, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 21:12, closed)

Back in the day...
This happened some six years ago, none of the persons involved are at what has been, otherwise very aptly, described as toff school, *dahling*.
(adelie discovered the joys of a board sig on, Wed 2 Jan 2008, 21:16, closed)