I was seven, and though there were ads all over TV warning us not to do it, I did it anyway.
Not deliberately, you understand - I just wanted my ball, as I'd hit it over to the other side of the road.

I sidled between my dad's and my mate's dad's car and ran out.

The on-coming car would have been doing at least 50mph - it's a busy, main arterial road in the countryside.

I don't think he'd even had time to hit the brakes, and the front wheel went over the back of my shoe as I ran, taking the shoe off.

His wing-mirror hit my elbow as the screeching of the brakes started, and he slid to a halt several tens of meters away.

I collapsed at the other side of the road crying my eyes out, and the driver ran over to me, grabbing my shoulder and checking I was OK. I think he may even have picked me up and carried me home, because somehow my dad turned up, hugging me so hard I could barely breathe, reassuring me it was all OK it was all OK just a shock it was all OK just a shock it was all OK.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Thu 5 Apr 2012, 13:44, 2 replies)

You...
...daft cunt.
(Harry Webshiter Spiggley biggley bog., Thu 5 Apr 2012, 15:21, closed)

Steady on.
This is how I was killed.
(judgetheobscure used to sweep in butchers' shops., Thu 5 Apr 2012, 18:47, closed)