It’s strange that with all the bumps, bruises and grazes that I’ve had so far, that I’ve never broken a bone. I’ve fallen off motorcycles, had bales of hay dropped on my head, almost drowned in rivers, damaged cars and had a couple of workshop accidents. I guess I am extremely fortunate, let’s say lucky, when I think on a couple of past accidents.
Of all the events that I can recount only a couple have left their mark. That indelible mark that’s a sign of life’s travels and travails. One finger wouldn’t be graded ten out of ten in a finger competition. My forehead has a small mark, could call it a dent, hardly noticeable by anyone other than me. That’s the list. Thankfully a tiny list.
I’m not counting a botch job of a hospital scare that a boyhood appendicitis left me. Images of that time don’t stack up to a big pile but one of rolling in agony on a living room sofa, I’ll never forget. A colourful children’s ward and unendingly cheerful nurses stick too. And a clown.
There are those near misses that leave no physical signs. Rich selection of memories. An acute compression in time. The electrical shocks I’ve had have no legacy other than my great respect of high voltages. Vivid recollections too.
Yes, if it wasn’t for a wide-awake race marshal at a grass track meeting[1], I’d probably have been run over you a Laverda sidecar outfit. Thankfully someone grabbed me from behind and pulled me to safety behind the straw bales that made up the ring. This was the 1970s in a bowl-shaped field outside a small town called Mere. Perfect for that crazy kind of bike racing.
At the time a mate of mine was a keen amateur photographer. He’d get a pass to photograph the action. We’d go to grass track and road race Auto-Cycle Union (ACU) meetings around the West Country. It was always interesting to read the disclaimer on our marshalling race tickets. Anything bad happens – not our fault.
My finger damage is much more recent. It’s the dumb stuff that caught me out. Moving plant pots around doesn’t usually result in any great consequence. Most of them don’t weigh a lot. In this case a large square fiberglass pot needed moving. I had tried pushing it. That didn’t move it far as it scraped slowly along the patio. Next tactic was to pull it. Getting some momentum going it seemed to move more easily as I pulled it. What I didn’t count on was the fragility of the material of the pot. It had aged. I pulled hard and surprise, surprise, it broke. I went flying across the patio at speed. Naturally, I put my hand out to save me tumbling down a flight of stairs. Sadly, my finger took the first impact. That was painful.
Life without one or two bumps, bruises and grazes is unimaginable. Maybe, I’ve got a little bit more risk averse with age. However, like the back garden plant pot incident there’s always an opportunity to be foolish. Having a story to tell about my father falling off a ladder while fixing a gutter, I’m particularly careful around those potential death traps.
I’m happy to admit that I haven’t got nine lives. Or at last I’ve used up a few.
[1] Example: https://youtu.be/ZqC2Hc43a3w
John Vincent 