Which reminded me of the multiplicity of other daft accidents I have had over the years. The one that immediately sprung to mind was when I put a fork though my foot. A gardening fork mind, not a table fork, one of the big ones covered with mud. By this time we had moved to a house in Pagham Road. It had two large bedrooms, a study, a living room with a ding area and kitchen. It also has large gardens front and back. It had been built in the orchard of the house along the road, so had fruit trees, apples, pears, plums, cooking apples and cherries. The were old and didn't produce much fruit but we got some every summer, along with lots of wasps. Blanket apples taste great eaten straight off the tree, with a bowl of sugar to dip them in, to counteract the sharpness.
The house was set slightly back from the road, with a wild area about a metre wide which was always full of daffodils and snowdrops and then a row of tall elm trees before the road. That was, of course, before Dutch Elm Disease. One early summer the council came along and said that all the trees would have to come down because they were diseased. I was furious. So I went out with a spade and fork to rescue some of the bulbs. I was so angry I wasn't looking what I was doing and put the fork right through my foot just above my toes. That needed a visit to the local surgery for a tetanus jag. I don't remember getting much sympathy either!
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