skipping. Especially skipping with a long rope that you were supposed to run through to the other side. Sometimes two ropes turned in opposite direction were used. I was no good at that either, often became caught. Indeed my cheek still bears the lash mark from that second rope. Now looks like a duelling scar and in other circumstances might be rather fetching. To children it's the mark of an idiot, to adults the mark of an Action Man. It'd be nice to declare I'm sometimes mistaken for Action Man but with me at five foot eight and him at only eight it just doesn't happen. Instead, on seeing my scar people mostly say,
Nice scar. Were you ever the model for Action Man?
and I always reply "No"
then, in a disappointed manner they say,
Skipping injury huh? Still living alone?
and I always say Fuck Off.
It's worse in supermarket queues.
4 comments:
Is this a true story, or a Dan flight of fantasy?
(I bet it really was a duelling scar. Go on, tell us of your experiences as an Austrian count who went around slapping people in the face with his glove.)
Annie,
Of course this story is true. And how perceptive of you to realise indeed I am of a noble Austrian heritage. And yes I do wear gloves and a cloak. For many years I wore a waxed moustache that was twisted into points but gave it up after putting someone's eye out during a snog.
Aaaah, 'tis my long lost hero Zorro in disguise as an entangled non-rope-skipper. lol
And I know exactly what you mean about those double ropes.
Austrian? I thought maybe you had been touched by the Blaney Stone. :-)
Sandy
Sandy,
I've always rather fancied myself as a comic book hero, dark, handsome, strong chin, and yes maybe a cloak too. And a scar, and maybe a big house, and independant income, and skill at swordplay, and possibly a Spanish name like Miguel. And the wind would always be facing, and my horse, also Miguel, would be strong, and never do anything distasteful like shit. And I'd be married to Conchita, who would also have independent means so we'd never argue about money, and the local peasantry would love me and shout 'Hey Miguel!' as I rode through their farm lands, and both Miguel and I would turn, just so, and the setting sun would show off our muscular frames but only briefly before the dust hid our departure and then we would be gone, and the peasants would turn to one another and say "ah, Miguel and Miguel." And nothing more because it wouldn't fit the script.
Sigh.
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