It may be fair to say that my first born is somewhat accident-prone. In her barely eight years she has clocked up no less than three A&E visits with two unrelated broken limbs and one set of stitches. Not to mention the various bruises, cuts and scrapes she’s suffered from falling down stairs, off bikes and scooters, over her own feet; whenever possible, she’s fallen over, onto, into or off it. In fact, with a quick trawl through my photo library, I can assemble a potted catalogue of her injuries over the years (and bear in mind these are just the ones captured for posterity; there were more, believe me):
Unfortunately it’s becoming all too clear where she inherited these tendencies from, as my latest escapade in the kitchen demonstrates.
I had a bag of raspberries in the fridge that leaked a load of juice thanks to a hole in the bag; in the process of clearing up the mess somehow the juice ran down onto the bulb in the lower part of the fridge, which promptly exploded with a loud bang, shorting the ground floor electrics. Stupidly I turned the fuse back on before returning to clean up the fridge with a damp cloth. I think you can probably see where this is going… The details are a bit hazy; there may or may not have been another bang as the electrics went off again, and I think the hand not holding the cloth was on the (metal) kitchen bin, but there was an unmistakable jolt that somehow went through both hands, followed by a loud scream (definitely mine).
At this point, Nick came running in wondering what the hell I’d blown up now, and I rather melodramatically collapsed sobbing in his arms, convinced that the kitchen had a contract out on me.
So, um, sorry Alice, but if your mother is anything to go by, there’ll be a few more A&E visits yet.