The worst was not
amongst others, breaking my arm after my skateboard flew out from under my feet, splatting me on the kitchen floor when I was 7. It was not the 6 pure evil injections in my gums when I was 10. It was not being beaten like a punch bag by a particularly mentalist ex. It was not being punched in the eye by a chav (although, being drunk may have helped that). Nor was it even stepping on an upturned plug.

No.

The worst pain I’ve ever experienced is the time I shut the front door on my hand. Exciting, I know. The Mr-at-the-time and I were having a bit of a barny, so I decided to go to the shop to get some tobacco and cool down a bit. So off I flounced out the flat, and viciously pulled the front door shut behind me. I reached behind me to grab the catch so I could shut the door without slamming it, as I did every day, but this time something was wrong. I couldn’t find the catch! I always found the catch. Pitch black, blind drunk, almost comatose, it didn’t matter: I knew that catch like the back of my hand. It felt like time had stopped still as I realised that the door was still closing at an alarming rate and my hand hadn’t made contact with anything. What was my hand doing? Where was it? I'll tell you where it was. It was in the perfect place for the tongue of the lock to stab in to the back of my hand and the door slammed so hard I though my hand had been cut in two. Melodramatic, I know, but I’m only a skinny little thing, I could play a ditty on the bones sticking out my hand if I wanted to. The pain was immediate, the world went grey and I couldn’t breath. The Mr-at-the-time eventually came out to see what was going on, and bless him, he scooped me up off the floor, took me inside and got me some ice and then went to get the tobacco. There were no broken bones, just a very swollen rainbow tinted ham hand for about a month, and the ability to mini sick every time I think about it.
(Beacon, Wed 4 Aug 2010, 10:04, Reply)