‘There’s worse trouble at sea.’
This is what the lady on the news is saying as she shovels snow off her car and I look down at my lame arm in a cast and think, ‘Hmm. Maybe she’s right.'
So, yeah, like so many graceless ten-year-olds before me, I’ve broken my arm. This is a peculiar cross for a person my age to bear. You don’t often see people like me, at my age, hunched over and wandering about in a calico sling with a grubby, two-finger gun permanently unholstered in a kind of demented cowboy threat.
How did I manage it? Well, let’s just say it was a freak beach volleyball accident, the likes of which have never been seen before, and are unlikely be replicated. I felt very sorry for myself – sorry that my once strong, capable hand is now a forlorn shadow-puppet of its former self, defiant in its uselessness – just like the public toilets on The Level. ‘It’s not my fault I don’t work,’ they seem to say. ‘You did this to me!’ [read more]