Last week, I fractured a bone in my toe and had to have a plaster cast for the first time in my life.
Now I had a pretty ordinary childhood. I climbed trees, had fights, did Evil Knevil impressions (disastrous attempt to jump thirteen matchbox buses on my pushbike), played school and sunday league football, kicked down doors, got drunk and fell over walls / down stairs, got married etc.
Not once in all this did I ever break a bone or require stitches. Plasters, crepe bandages and "there there" kisses from my Mum were about the limit of the medical interventions required.
I'm therefore all the more pissed off that my injury did not come in the form of a horrific but miraculous survival of a car crash, or heroically saving an injured puppy from an on-rushing juggernaut. Rather, it was a vicious and unprovoked attack by... a table.
You may remember that I'm directing a play at the moment. Whilst demonstrating how I wanted an intense and threatening scene played with "energy and commitment", I kicked the said table. Instead of flying dramatically across the rehearsal room, the table cunningly contrived to be 20 kilos heavier than I expected it to be, and fell over with a loud bang. The subsequent playing of the scene was excellent, but it only lasts two minutes. On the other hand, my foot will take six weeks to heel.
My Nemesis
More importantly, it's official. I can be harmed by the base and mortal world. And occasional furniture.
No comments:
Post a Comment