As a child of around seven years old,
I was on my way to the seaside, Blackpool to be precise. During my joyous journey to the train station, my sister and I were confronted by our school gates, which, when closed, has a gap just wide enough to let one person through. Needless to say, we took it upon ourselves to disprove the 'one at a time' theory, and ran headlong towards said gap. We neared the tiny portal, and tragedy struck. Our legs caught on each other, and entangled, down we both went. My sister, five years old at the time, was overcome by the pain present in her slightly grazed shins, and began to quietly sob. My mother rushed to her side, and comforted her for a few minutes, until turning her attention to me...

...I lay on the ground with a large, sharp rock, roughly the size of a half-brick, embedded into my leg just under the knee-cap, blood turning my lower leg a deep crimson, and me too out of it to even cry..."Off to casualty", mother cried, and away we went, but not before dropping my little sister at the station to enjoy a day at the beach.

What made this worse, even after being denied the excrement-filled beaches of Blackpool, having a rock stuck in my leg, and watching my little sister swan off to the beach in my place, was when they came to clean the wound.

The nurse comforted me, assured me that I would feel no pain, and gave me a little local anaesthetic. She then, before the anaesthetic had taken effect, proceeded to clean my slightly gritty wound.

With a toothbrush.

Now, there was no need for that...
( Mr.Ons knows you can hear him, Earthmen., Thu 16 Jun 2005, 9:48, Reply)