Sinister: i fought in a war

[David Hewitt]

G'day all.

Worst injuries? Pah. You're all a bunch of lightweights. I can't
believe I'm the clumsiest and most accident prone one out of all you
bunch of PE-dodging note-from-matron wavers.

1. When I was about, ooh, 3 years old or something, my father put me
on his bike, and took me for a ride down to the shops. He'd had a few
drinks, though, and didn't think it through, because I was just sort
of sitting on the crossbar (is that what you call that bit, in front
of the seat?) without a helmet or being attached to the bike in any
way. My little foot, dangling freely, went into the spokes of the
wheel, mangling it quite badly. I'm surprised it didn't come off. I
think it probably hurt like a bastard, but my main memory of the event
is my mother's reaction when he brought me home. That was actually far
more frightening to me than the fact that my foot had almost been
ripped off, and my first indication that what had happened was
actually serious. You think you're pretty much invincible at that age.

And actually, as a matter of fact, you are pretty resilient. There was
surprisingly little long-term damage - I had to wear a brace thing
around it for a fair while, but the scarring eventually went away, and
it was right as rain from about the age of 13 or so.

2. Then, when I was about 5, my mother was making breakfast for me.
Breakfast that morning was hot milk and brown sugar over Weeties. In
the days before microwaves, people used to heat milk in saucepans on
the stove, believe it or not, and so it was that my mother was
bringing a saucepan of boiling milk to the table, where I was sitting
in my little school uniform of shorts and a shirt and tie, with long
socks and uncomfortable shoes, in front of a bowl of Weeties. But
rather than pour the milk into the bowl, she tripped over, and emptied
the whole damned thing into my lap. I've had some nasty knocks in my
time, but I think this was the worst pain I've ever experienced, and I
remember it clearly. There really is nothing like a burn, and a good
one just doesn't go away for ages. I had huge, puffy blisters all over
my legs for a really long time, and could barely move because of them.

3. The next bad one happened when I was 9. It was at my 9th birthday
party, in fact. We went to this ice skating rink with some of my
cousins, which was probably a bad idea to start with. I'd never skated
before, and fell over a lot, but was starting to get the hang of it
towards the end of the day. They got us all off the ice for a while,
and ran the Zamboni around to make it all as good as new. We got out
on the ice again, which was now really smooth. I was flying around, as
it was a lot faster than when the ice was all rough, and I was sort of
keeping my balance, even though I was wasn't really in control. The
person skating in front of me dug their toe into the ice, and took out
a big chunk of it. I promptly skated into the little hole, at great
speed, as I couldn't do anything else. Well, somehow, I flew up into
the air, flipped completely over, and landed head-first. Apparently it
was quite spectacular. In any case, I was knocked completely
unconscious, and half my face went black with bruising, and I stayed
that way for several weeks. I was taken to the emergency room, given
an X-ray, and told that I'd had a minor skull fracture. Happy
birthday!

4. Fast forward to 14. I'm at one of my first real parties. It was
really just a bunch of kids drinking whiskey in a yacht club that
someone's folks had rented for the night, but it seemed like a heck of
a good time at that age. There were girls there and everything (I went
to an all-boys school, so this was kind of a big deal). It was also
one of the first times I'd gotten *seriously* drunk. We were having a
bit of a dance about on the floor, which was one of those slippery
parquetry sort of deals. Someone spilled some of their drink near me.
You can see where this is going. I went arse over breakfast, and fell
heavily on my arm. I knew it wasn't quite right, because I couldn't
move it properly. Still, I was pissed, and having a good time. My
friend Sam thought I might have slipped it out of its joint, and
suggested I shake it vigorously back into place. This wasn't a good
idea. Anyway, I couldn't let my parents know that I was drinking, and
I was drunk enough not to be in too much pain, so I just stayed.
Drinking, dancing, trying to get up the courage to talk to a girl
(which I never actually did, for the record). I eventually went home
to bed, at the arranged time. In the morning, I realised that my hand,
wrist and forearm had swelled to about twice their usual size. It was
at this point that I asked to be taken to a doctor. Another X-ray, and
the result - I'd broken my arm in three places. Dancing. I was in
plaster for three months. "Ouch! That looks nasty, mate. How'd you get
that?" "Er... Dancing." Not very cool.

5. This one happened not long after the last one. It may have been the
same year, I'm not sure. I was swimming in the ocean, and went out a
bit too far. I'm really not a very good swimmer, and so I panicked a
bit, and swam quickly back in. I got to the point where I could just
touch the bottom, and I heavily put down my feet, so I could get my
breath back. Bad idea. There was half a broken beer bottle sticking up
out of the sand, and I'd trodden right on it. What's worse is that I
had to swim back into shore, with this great big flap of skin flapping
along behind me, and my little toe just about hanging off. You could
actually see the trail of blood I was leaving in the water - it's very
lucky there weren't any sharks around that day (we did actually see
the odd Great White at the beach where I used to live). Oh, and this
was in salt water. So it stung even more than having your foot sliced
open with broken glass usually does. Great.

There are probably heaps more - the many times I've had my nose broken
(it didn't always go in three different directions, or be quite this
big, for those who've met me) spring to mind, though those stories
aren't nearly as interesting. Usually just some guy punching my lights
out. Sometimes to steal my stuff (which once included my clothes,
dammit), and sometimes just because he didn't like the cut of my jib.
I also did my arm in again, this time while rollerskating. So I've
been ice skating once, and roller skating once, and both times landed
me in the emergency room. I think that's about enough skating for me.

I don't think I've ever caused any serious injuries to anyone else,
though I did once knock a friend's tooth out by accident. It turns out
that it wasn't really my fault, though, as all his teeth were a bit
loose (he lost another one shortly afterwards), and was actually
diagnosed with scurvy. That's what comes from eating nothing but
yiros* for the duration of an Arts degree, I suppose.

Best cheering up song? How about "Yes" by McAlmont and Butler? Or
pretty much anything by the Salteens.

Bulk love,
-Vanilla Flavoured David.

*AKA giros, doner kebab, souvlaki, etc. Why are there so many words
for this? I swear it's called something different in every town I've
ever been to.
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