In the days of yore, when I was a Bazzette, I enjoyed my sport. One beautiful day in Secondary School, my skinny frame and I, was on the playing field engrossed in a cricket match between class 2a and 2b. Of course, no elf and safety in those days meant playing without protective equipment. I proudly thumped the crease at the batting end, waiting for the thunderbolt from, Bowness, the opposing side’s star larker.
Not sure if there was a mini earthquake below my feet or my wiry pins about to buckle under me, I set an evil glare on the bowler. Awestruck at the length of his run-up and with my best foot forward, I thrust the willow before me, ready to engage the ‘corky’ – with the air of Boycott, my hero at the time.
I guess five minutes had passed before I came round. Was I in heaven? Why were there blurred images of angels, dressed in white vests and black school shorts? More importantly, why were these angels calling Mr Britton, God Almighty?
By the time the mist had cleared, Miss Alderbella, with a nose like a pirate’s parrot had arrived with the first aid kit. She duly collected six of my teeth from amongst the debris of the fallen wicket and bails and wrapped them in a sling. I rolled my tongue around my mouth which tasted of old Penny’s. Taking my arm, the teacher dragged me onto my wobbly legs and led me to the car park where we squeezed into, Mr Britton’s Isetta bubble car.
Within ten minutes, he had presented me to my mother, who was busy in the kitchen at home stewing beef bones for tea. Handing me, and the bandage, over to my mother of ten, Mr Britton politely advised mother, she should take me to see the doctor. Which, bless her cotton socks, she did. After putting the dumplings in the stew saying, ‘They’ll be ready, a time we’re back.’