Those of you who read all the drivel I produce will be aware that I’m a bit of an idiot.
Posts like this one, this one and this one serve as enough proof. I won’t even offer a defense I’m an idiot at times. I’m a bit like Inspector Clouseau. Bumbling along but everything comes out right at the end.
Just lately the kids have become a bit boring. Well not boring per se. More challenging. The teen is sulky and surly, the nearly teen has developed the attitude of a body builder on steroids, Buddy is a cheeky monkey and we won’t go there with Little Miss OMG.
To that effect I’ve decided to branch out and regale you with some of my almighty cock ups and misadventures.
Here’s the first.
That Time I Fell Through a Skylight!
As revealed in my 100 truths post my first job was as a Saturday Sales Assistant in a Sports Shoe Shop in Oxford.
During school holidays I’d work full-time. This meant I could get out of the house and earn money to buy myself designer clothes and fragrances. As well as taking advantage of the very generous staff discount.
The shop was located in an old townhouse on Oxford’s Cornmarket Street. Ground floor was the shop. First floor was the stockroom and office and the third and fourth floors just had junk thrown on them. On the third floor there was a window that led to a flat roof. During the Summer we would get our lunch, climb out the window and soak up the rays high above the bustle of the streets below.
One hot Summers day I bought my sandwich, grabbed my sun cream and made my way up to the third floor. Opened the window and out onto the roof. Being the safety conscious guy I walked around the skylight and sat down to eat my lunch and enjoy the Sun.
I lost track of the time and suddenly realised I was late back. Not thinking I stepped on to the skylight to go the shortest way back to the window.
One minute I was stood on the glass of the skylight the next I was dangling by my armpits looking down at a 30 foot drop. Straight onto a pointed wooden decoration on the handrail below.
One of my colleagues in the staff room heard the breaking glass and stuck his head out the door to see what the commotion was. He saw my dangling blood covered legs, the walls looked like Freddy Krueger had paid a visit.
He asked was I OK. Obviously I replied I was. As you do. I was still breathing, wasn’t in any great pain and could move all my limbs.
“Stay there! I’ll get help!” He said, and disappeared back out the door. Luckily for me he was squeamish at the sight of blood so wasn’t sticking around to help!
Stay here! I thought to myself. Not a bloody chance. The rest of the glass was making strange creaking noises that I didn’t like the sound off.
Somehow I managed to pull myself back up through the hole I’d made and in through the window. The manager appeared, saw the blood and got me to the staff changing room.
There was no first aid kit or first aider. I’m sure in this day and age that is against so many health and safety regulations it’s not funny. Back then no one batted an eyelid.
Someone was dispatched to Boots to buy first aid supplies. They came back with a first aider. She took one look at my leg and said “Ring an Ambulance! In the meantime keep your foot raised and press this lad on to try to stem the bleeding”
There must have been an ambulance nearby because before you could say “It hurts!” There were two paramedics standing over me. One felt me all over. I’m hoping this was to check me for broken bones! They quickly bandaged the worst cut on my leg up and told me to head to A&E. I wasn’t even getting a lift there! After a bit of persuasion they agreed to take me on the proviso if a more serious call came in they would divert there.
Luckily the person involved in tennis accident wasn’t deemed more important and it was straight to the John Radcliffe. Amazingly this was my only ever visit there!
I rang work to tell the boss it was mobbed and I wouldn’t be back in. There was no such thing as triage in those days, even blood dripping onto the waiting room floor wasn’t enough to speed things along.
Eventually I was seen and the Dr said I’d need stitches. They wheeled my bed into a large room, which contained another bed. On this was a biker, whose face had been ripped to shreds by the tarmac and a nurse with a pair of tweezers carefully plucking bits of the road surface out of his face.
In case you’re not aware there isn’t much flesh on your shin. So administering a Local Anesthetic isn’t the easiest of things to do. Four needles full sprayed more than injected into the wound and the Dr started to stitch me up. This was done fairly quickly with the obligatory wise crack about smoking being bad for your health when I told him I’d been having a smoke on the roof.
He then checked for more cuts and found a small one on my side.
“It’s only small, there isn’t much point in giving you a needle of anesthetic when it’s only two stitches needed.” He informed me.
“OK” I said. I think I’d gone into shock!
He lied through his shiny white teeth. It was worth the needle of anesthetic! The crochet hook they use for stitches bloody hurts going through the skin. TWICE! Not to mention the pain when he pulled the stitches tight and tied them up!
Thankfully my parents had moved back to the States by this point so I was spared having to explain to them what had happened!