If I could string a thread through my childhood, the pins that hold the thread in place would be all the times I hit my head.
Me and my best friend (at the time) used to play a game called Dizzy Egg. It was a simple game. The object was to spin around as many times as we could and then try not to fall over. I usually fell over, and this usually meant hitting my head on the unforgiving concrete.
In the same playground, I ran—for no particular reason—head first into the white painted wall of one of the school buildings. Luckily, it stayed white.
I was part of a weekend football club. Football Fun. A better name for it might have been “Football Keeps Hitting Me In The Face.” I’m not sure what it was about that football or my face, but the two were inseparable. You couldn’t keep them apart.
I remember one final and dramatic incident. On running through a metal gate, the gate swung closed and tried to run through me. One minute we were running and chasing and laughing. The next I was on the floor, bleeding a lot and saying some words that weren’t suitable for the playground.
That one needed a trip to the hospital and I still have the scar.
