The Sport of Kings

To clear up some confusion from my last post, the point of the elf joke is that it isn't supposed to make sense. I actually thought it was quite funny, but I accept I'm in the minority.

So far as I can tell, an increasingly largish number of people are starting to read my blog. Good for you. I would mention who they are, but most of them don't have nicknames yet. 

On the subject of nicknames, Ames and Midgie asked me specifically to change their names to (respectively) Sharona and Brandine. I really don't want to have to go back and change their names in every single one of the posts I've done so far. Therefore, here is:

The Leslie M. Harper Quick & Easy Guide To Name Changes

(current as of October 2010)

Ames = Sharona

Midgie = Brandine

Or, alternatively:

Midgie = Brandine

Ames = Sharona

That should clear it up for everyone. If you still have trouble remembering these name changes, just sit back and pretend none of it ever happened. This works extremely well for me in Physics. That is to say, I don't do very well in the subject. But it does mean my brain isn't full of useless Physics knowledge. It's obvious I'm the winner in this situation.

As I believe all of you are aware (I doubt anyone not from my school would find this remotely interesting, or in any way related to real life) it is currently fourth term. We've been working fairly solidly all year. The exams are coming up in a couple of weeks. And do we get a break now?

Frankly, no.

That's not entirely fair, actually. There are just one or two things that ruin it for the rest. Maths, for example. To celebrate the spring weather and rapid approach of the end of the year, we're learning about polynomials. Wonderful. I can't tell you what they are because I've forgotten. However, hard as they are, the really nasty thing about them is that to divide them (as our Maths teacher told us cheerfully), you have to know long division.

In primary school, I'm certain I learnt how to do long division. I can readily imagine myself sitting down and doing . . . the things you do in long division. I just have no memory of it. Which is not the best situation to be in when studying polynomials.

Luckily for me (well, kind of luckily) my Maths teacher was prepared for this, and spent a whole lesson teaching everyone the methods you need to know to do things involving polynomials (I'm a little hazy on the specifics). I was relieved to realise I wasn't the only one in the class who couldn't do it. We courageously struggled on until the end of the lesson - at which point somebody asked Mr G what we'd be doing next lesson. 'We'll be learning how to divide polynomials without having to do all of this,' he said, to a complete silence in the room. Still, I can now divide at length, which is something.

I believe I've written about my PE lessons in this blog before, most specifically in relation to lacrosse and cycling. I've ranted on at some length as to my inability to pick up a lacrosse ball, the way I once got the handlebars on my bike the wrong way around and nearly fell over (which Vyvyan still hasn't forgotten), and the time I hit myself in the shins with my own crosse (I don't think I've written about that yet, but it was fairly painful and not a little embarrassing. By which I mean quite a lot embarrassing). 

In fact, my PE class went for a bike ride today. I was hampered only by the fact that I'd forgotten to bring my PE gear in with me. I was forced to borrow Peanut's. Thank you, incidentally, Peanut, you basically saved my life (or saved me from a detention, anyway, which isn't exactly the same thing), and I hate to criticise. After all, the bike ride (given my level of ability) was never going to be exactly magical. However, if anything is worse than a regular bicycle ride, then it's when you go on a bike ride wearing shoes several times too small.

The ride itself was fairly interesting. I was somewhere near the back of the class, but there were still people behind me: Sharona (AMES), Brandine (MIDGIE), Indie and Cat. I was unlikely to forget that they were behind me, given that they screamed whenever we went up a hill. Or down a hill. Or on a flat bit of road.

Anyway, this is basically what happened on our ride:

1. PE class collect bike helmets. I get my fingers stuck in the buckle while trying to adjust the strap. A fine beginning.

2. PE class head up hill to bike shed. I begin to experience first feelings of resentment for Peanut's shoes.

3. Bikes are chosen. Mine is too big. Attempt to remedy this by lowering the seat.

4. Get fingers stuck in seat-lowering device. Enlist Beartrap's help. Manage to get out unscathed.

5. Start ride.

6. Sharona, Cat and Brandine decide they need a distress signal after Cat is nearly run over by a car.

7. They decide ideal distress signal is making quacking noises very loudly as opposed to something like, say, shouting for help.

8. Passers-by get confused as groups of quacking students pass them. Decide something needs to be done to raise the reputation of the school. Ames suggests we should greet pedestrians in a friendly manner (bear in mind that throughout this we were riding the bikes, so when it says 'suggests' it really means 'yells').

8. Vyvyan decides an ordinary 'Hello' is too boring and goes for 'Bonjour' instead. I go for a more conventional 'Guten tag'. Somebody behinds me goes for 'Top of the morning'. Everybody we pass is greeted in a number of culturally interesting ways. Not sure if this raised the reputation of the school at all, but it was fun.

9. Chain falls off the gear wheel on my bike. Klaus (previously unmentioned) suggests extra assistance is needed. Beartrap puts it back on again.

10. My bike now makes interesting clicking noises whenever it's in a certain gear. Decide to ignore it.

11. Stop at playground. Get off bike, nearly fall over. Blame Peanut's shoes, which are by this point quite uncomfortable. PE class enjoy playground in a manner unfit for people of our age.

12. Sharona and Indie look for ducks.

13. Sharona and Indie find some ducks.

14. Sharona and Indie are chased by ducks.

15. PE teacher recommends Sharona and Indie stay away from ducks.

16. Start ride back home again.

17. Pedals stop turning on my bike. Discover it is because chain is wedged awkwardly. Beartrap unwedges it.

18. Chain slips off gear wheel and becomes wedged simultaneously. Give up on bike. Beartrap fixes it. Suggest that Beartrap has his own show, similar to 'Jim'll Fix It' but with bikes. Beartrap declines.

19. Make it back to school. By this point, am really beginning to hate Peanut's shoes.

20. Try to ride up hill to bike shed. Give up. Get off bike and walk up hill to bike shed.

21. Leave bike, leave helmet, go back to change rooms and remove Peanut's shoes.

22. Vow never to repeat experience. Until next PE lesson, anyway.

There you have it. An account of my cycling experience. Not quite as bad as the time I mixed up the gear change and the handbrake and went through a puddle at a speed more commonly seen in F1 racing cars, but still pretty bad. I'd like to think it wasn't my fault but the bikes that the chain kept slipping off, but I suppose we'll never know. Actually, if anyone in my year rides bikes in PE, and gets bike #25, can they fill me in about it? If the same thing happens to them I'll be slightly reassured about my riding ability.

All of the above makes a point. A long point, admittedly, but a good one, I feel. The point being that cycling is NOT my sport. Neither is lacrosse. Both of these things have been established.

I hadn't, however, bargained on there being something worse than both of those sports. It's not worse than both of them put together. In fact, this new sport is EXACTLY as bad as cycling and lacrosse put together. 

This is because it is, in fact, cycling and lacrosse put together. I call it either 'cyclacrosse' or 'hell'. 'Hell' is shorter, so that's the one I normally go with. It's also amazingly accurate.

I'm not sure what was going through my teacher's head when she thought this would be a good idea. I can ride a bike with both hands. I can't do it with one. I especially can't do it when I'm holding a lacrosse stick in my left hand and steering madly with my right whilst careening madly in ever-decreasing circles around the oval. Oh, yes, and I'm supposed to care about the ball in the middle of that too.

I think it would be fair to call cyclacrosse the sport of kings. After all, a good portion of kings were bastards, weren't they? Look at Henry the Eighth. Louis the Fifteenth. William the Conqueror's other title was, actually, 'William the Bastard', although it should be mentioned that only people who didn't like him called him that.

I can imagine one of those kings sitting down and thinking 'A combination of cycling and lacrosse, what a good idea. I'll get rid of the iron maiden and/or guillotine and let my enemies play cyclacrosse instead.'

Except they didn't have bikes back then, and I'm not sure about lacrosse. I suppose the closest they would have come would have been to ride around on horses with sticks.

Which, come to think of it, is exactly what jousting is. But I should mention here - and I'm going to have to be firm around this - that while I can put up with bikes, crosses, and the inevitable amounts of pain that come when the two are combined, if my teacher ever comes in and suggest that we joust on the oval, I'm going to revolt.

Survival of the Fittest

September at last. There's something on the breeze, something pervading the atmosphere and infiltrating the air we breathe. Something is looming up on the horizon, something we can't help but be aware of, teacher and student alike . . .
No, it's not spring, although that's certainly here. I'm referring to the Athletics Carnival.
Yes, time, once again, for that joyous day. The day on which we turn up at the sports stadium, sporting house colours, some of us wearing the appropriate track pants and jumpers, more of us shivering in the so-called spring weather wishing we were wearing track pants and jumpers. The house captains are invariably dressed up for this year's theme, a different one for each house, wondering why nobody else bothered to make an effort (some people have forgotten. Most people just don't care). Then come the events themselves. This part of the year is always intriguing. I've devoted some thought to it, and I think it can mostly be summed up with a basic maths equation. The number of events you actually do is, almost always, less than the number you signed up for, but more than the number you want to do. There are a couple of exceptions to this rule, of course. There are, surprisingly, the people who really care about the Carnival. You're going to have to take my word for this, because I haven't met one yet, but circumstantial evidence has convinced me that their existence is a definite possibility. The far larger category is of people who are so phenomenally, amazingly weak-willed they can be persuaded by a relatively determined house captain to go into events they haven't a clue about, and have no wish to do. I belong unashamedly to this category. I think the problem is that I'm very suggestible. With most things, I can evaluate what I know about the person to figure out if they're telling the truth or not. For example, part of the way through the day Shoelace attempted to convince me that David Tennant was, and is, a hugely successful porn star. Thanks to what I know about Shoelace, I could then be fairly certain this wasn't true. With people I don't know as well, however, I go all to bits. It was even worse on the day when I was actually signing up for events (a good week before). Marie-Clare and Gwen are both in my house, Acacia of the yellow shirt, but Marie-Clare is the only one in my age-group (well, obviously there are other Acacians in my age group. Marie-Clare is the only one to have received a nickname). Anyway, unfortunately for me, 25 is also in Acacia. In fact, that's the way she discovered him. During the cross country, she nudged me and pointed out a boy, playing soccer with his friends, his back to us, and the number '25' on the back of his shirt. Since then she's been smitten. Marie-Clare was convinced that the better we did for our house, the more impressed 25 would be with her. So she signed up for discus, triple jump, and high jump. I went up to the sign-up board convinced that all I wanted to do was 200m. What came afterwards is rather a blur. All you need to know is that by the end of it I'd been signed up for 100m, 200m, triple jump, high jump, and was the reserve for 400m.
So, obviously, I wasn't looking forward to the day itself. I made it to the stadium with an unusually low number of false starts - my father has a thing about sun-protection, and drove us back home when he realised we didn't have hats - and chatted amiably to Vyvan. We discussed the people who hadn't bothered to turn up - GIUSEPPE, LALA, ARIANE, NESS, and AVIATOR, you know who you are - and the newfound relationship between Ames and Lox. They've had an on/off friendship for a good number of years, and they finally got it together this weekend. I sincerely doubt either of them read this, but just in case, congratulations, people. In a short space of time, during which I accidentally married Shoelace, adopted Vyvyan's younger brother, and re-named him Carey (for a short space of time, it was unusually full), the day had begun. Oh, joy of joys. I skipped the 100m and sat on the (fake) grass with Shoelace, Gwen, Midge, Vyvyan, Marie-Clare, and Ames. I read a draft of Shoelace's history essay. She'd misspelt Hitler's name. That's all you need to know. I did actually compliment her on a description she'd written of one of Germany's art galleries. She replied with 'Oh, that bit? Yeah, I copied it off a website.' Enough said.
I was somehow persuaded into running the 400m, which took a bit out of me. I came in at an honourable eighth position. Of the eight people running the race. To replenish my strength I read part of Stephen Fry's autobiography. Yes, it sounds sad, but I wasn't being half as antisocial as Peanut was. She spent the whole day reading a book, no races, no track events. She was actually sitting in a whole row of people reading. She was at one end and a teacher, Mr W, was at the other. Whenever I went to talk to Peanut he shouted down the row 'No socialising down there! This is the reading row. For antisocial behaviour only'. Eventually Peanut and I went up to the canteen so she could buy some M&Ms. We then spent an instructive ten minutes figuring out whether or not we could taste the difference between the blue ones and the normal ones, after Ames had explained that she liked all colours but blue. I could. Peanut couldn't. You see, this is the kind of thing we'd be far better off learning in schools. Although it wouldn't really help with the national obesity crisis.

I then ran the 200m. I may have come last. Again. But at least I maintained my dignity, unlike Peanut, who didn't move from her bench after the M&M excursion. Yes, there's nothing like throwing yourself around a circular track, wheezing pathetically and attempting to keep up with the other, infinitely fitter people powering along in front of you, then passing the finish line to collapse, curled in a foetal position, on the (fake) grass, to really give you a sense of dignity. Lucky, lucky Peanut.

I missed the high jump due the fact that the 200m was on at the same time. Tragic. No, really. Marie-Clare skipped the high jump too. She decided to regale her exhausted senses with a trip to the coffee van that was parked conveniently next to the canteen of the stadium we were at. This was one of the harder points of the day. Marie-Clare, while one of my greatest friends, and possessed of innumerable good qualities, has one major fault. She is incapable of making even the smallest decision. Actually, that's not true. She's great at coming to decisions. So good she can make up to ten or twenty of them before reaching a definite conclusion. In this case, Vyvyan and I followed her to the coffee van, which was, as it happens, quite fortuitous, as otherwise I suspect she would have been there for a good fifteen to twenty years.

MARIE-CLARE (MC): What do I want from here?

VYVYAN (V): It's a coffee van. How about coffee?

MC: No, I don't like coffee.

LESLIE (L): Why don't you buy a biscuit?

V: You should buy a hot chocolate, then.

MC: The iced chocolates look nice as well.

V: But it's freezing! You can't buy iced chocolate!

L: I think you should buy a biscuit. Look, that one's got chocolate on it

MC: I still think I want to buy an iced chocolate.

V: All right. You do what you want.

MC: Oh . . . but they're quite expensive, aren't they?

V: Quite expensive, yes.

L: The biscuits aren't too expensive.

MC: I think I'll have a hot chocolate instead.

(We line up to buy a hot chocolate. Marie-Clare peers over the shoulder of the person in front of her)

MC: What's he buying?

V: I think that's an iced chocolate.

MC: Look, the iced chocolates have cream on top. Why don't I buy one of them?

L: You know what goes well with iced chocolate? Biscuits.

MC: I suppose I could just buy a medium one. Hang on - they look tiny! I'll have to buy a large one.

V: So buy a large one.

MC: But they're so expensive. Maybe a medium.

V: We're nearly at the front of the queue. You'll have to make up your mind.

MC: Oh, I'll have to buy a hot chocolate. Yes, a hot chocolate. It's cheaper, and the weather's right for it.

V: If you're sure.

L: Biscuits go incredibly well with hot chocolate as well. You should try it.

V: I don't care about biscuits.

L: What kind of an attitude is that? I just think she should buy a biscuit.

V: I don't think - hey, that biscuit has sprinkles on it! It's like a giant chocolate freckle!

MC: You're not helping. So I want a hot - no, an iced - no, definitely a hot chocolate that's medium - or can I afford large?

SERVER (S): So, what did you want?

MC: Um . . . nothing. I'm going to the canteen instead.

(She heads out of the line for the coffee van and lines up for the canteen. Vyvyan and I trail along behind her)

MC: What do I want from here? Do you think they sell drinks here?

V: No. Just buy some chips. Or Skittles.

L: Hey, look what they're selling here! Biscuits!

MC: But everything is so expensive!

V: It's up to you.

L: Listen! This is my favourite song! They're playing my favourite song on the radio!

(I listen for a bit)

L: No, this isn't my favourite song.

MC: I don't even really want anything from here anyway.

V: What do you want?

MC: I want an iced chocolate.

(She leaves the canteen line and re-enters the line for the coffee van. As always, Vyvyan and I follow her)

MC: So I'm going to get a hot chocolate.

L: I thought you wanted an iced chocolate?

MC: No, they're too expensive. Unless - could I get a medium one?

V: MAKE A DECISION! PLEASE!

MC: What do you think I should get? I don't know!

L: You should buy a biscuit.

V: Get a hot chocolate. It's better weather for it.

L: Or, as I was about to say, a hot chocolate. Buy a large hot chocolate and have done with it. Unless you feel the need to buy a biscuit as well. In which case, I'm not going to hold you back.

MC: A hot chocolate, then? You think so?

V: Yes. Buy it now.

MC: I will.

(The line moves forward until Marie-Clare is in front of the server)

MC: I want a hot - or should I get an iced chocolate?

L & V: NO!

MC: A large iced chocolate, please.

(She watches them make it, anxiously)

MC: Or maybe I should get -

L: It's too late, Marie-Clare! Stay with your iced chocolate!

V: Are we done?

(Marie-Clare is given her iced chocolate. We walk along as she drinks it)

V: How is it?

MC: It's excellent. I knew this was the one to buy.

(Vyvan and I share a deep and meaningful look)

The day was finished off quite nicely with a round of triple jump for Marie-Clare and myself (that is to say, there were others involved. Marie-Clare and I were the only ones from the proud house of Acacia). The only other nicknamer [person with a blog nickname. I've gotten sick of having to type 'person with a blog nickname' every time] there was Shoelace, who was competing for her house, Karri of the navy-blue. It was raining slightly at this point so we were forced to huddle in a public toilet until our turn came. Dignity. Always dignity. We went alphabetically - that is to say, alphabetically by house, and then by last name. Acacia is the first house, and Marie-Clare's surname is before mine, so she was first, I second. She went quite well, qualifying with her first jump. I believe she came fifth or sixth overall. My jump was less spectacular. Well, I didn't know you were supposed to jump before the line. I thought you could jump on it. I was automatically disqualified. What a day! Last in two events, disqualified in a third. I wasn't feeling overly dignified by this point. Still, Shoelace disqualified too - by about a metre over the line - so I had company.

The day closed about fifteen minutes earlier than schooldays do normally, which was nice. Unfortunately, we still had to hand around to clean up. Part of this involved removing all scraps of rubbish from the benches we were sitting on. I had regained morale after my disastrous day competition-wise, and decided, instead of picking them up and putting them in the bin, to crush two M&Ms with the sole of my shoe. Gwen watched me sceptically. I was astounded to notice that the sweets failed to break, even after a good ten or twelve goes. Yaz had also been watching me critically. 'No, you've got to get them with the heel of your shoe. Like this.' He stepped on them confidently, then examined the still-whole M&Ms carefully. Milly, his twin sister, stepped in. 'Perhaps you're not doing it hard enough.' No - even that failed to do it. I swear I stayed there for a good five minutes, and the things refused to give in. Forget the Athletics Carnival. This was serious. Eventually I collapsed on a bench, defeated by cheap confectionary.

Yaz came up once more and devoted a closer look to the M&Ms. One was orange and one yellow. 'Um - Leslie?'

'Yes?'

'Those aren't M&Ms.'

'What?'

'They're Skittles. They're virtually indestructible.'

Well. I, for one, intend to write an extremely stern letter to the relevant authorities as to the necessity of being able to tell M&Ms and Skittles apart. Either that, or insist we have Skittle-breaking competitions in the next Athletics Carnival.

I considered this on the walk home. This had clearly not been a good day. What could I do, in order to maintain my dignity for the next year?

I paused this thought briefly when I saw someone in a passing car who looked exactly like Chas Licciardello. After Gwen had assured me that it couldn't be him, and had gone back to muttering deprecatingly about my state of mind, I resumed my train of thought.

I needed to get fit. Not to lose weight - I, for one, can easily be mistaken for an anorexic hat rack. I make up for it by being the slowest thing on two legs since the penguin was invented. I tend to base my running style on that of this superb animal as well. Well, that would have to change. As of the next day, I would become good at exercise, and sports, and all those other appalling physical things that no sane person cares about.

This resolution lasted me right up until second period of the proceeding day.

PE is never good for me. PE when we're outside is worse. PE when we go outside the school boundaries is exceedingly awful. And PE in which we get bicycles and ride to neighbouring suburbs is, as I like to put it, Completely, Ridiculously, Amazingly Pointless.

I hadn't ridden a bicycle in some months. This was made astoundingly clear to one and all as soon as I got on my bike, rode a few metres, and was unsurprised to find myself wobbling all over the road. This is quite similar to my driving technique. At a shout from my PE teacher, I turned around. She was running up behind me. 'Leslie!'

'What?'

'You've got the handlebars the wrong way round!'

And I hadn't even got out of the school yet.

Vyvyan, Ames, and Midge are all in my PE class. Unfortunately Ames and Midge are Slightly Less Able Class Kompanions (sorry for that K), and are Extremely, Reluctantly Slow. They decided not to turn up with their PE gear. I'd forgotten to bring my PE shirt, but borrowed a spare one from Giuseppe. The ride was painful. I'm not used to riding with multiple gears. At one point we went off-road for a bit, and I was confronted with a large, muddy puddle covering the whole trail we were supposed to be following. The sensible thing to do at this point would have been to (a) put the brakes on and (b) move carefully through the puddle. What I did was (a) mistake the handbrake for the gear changer and (b) speed up, careening madly through the puddle and spraying myself and those around me with a liberal coating of mud. At one point I nearly fell off going up a slight hill. Luckily I didn't, as I might have been killed. Imagine what they would have to have put on my grave: 'HERE LIES LESLIE M. HARPER. TAKEN FROM US IN THE 2010TH YEAR OF OUR LORD BY A DECEIVINGLY GENTLE SLOPE. WE HOPE SHE IS IN A BETTER PLACE, PREFERABLY ONE WITH NO BICYCLES'. I remember, at one point, my teacher thought it would be a good idea to go and ride around in an abandoned carpark. While I swerved randomly, gritting my teeth, I heard the student in front of me laughing with carefree abandon. 'This is fun!' she yelled. 'Just like riding a car!'

'No, it's not,' I called back firmly. 'I haven't driven into anything yet. Although goodness knows how I've been so lucky.'

I was incredibly relieved to make it back to our school bike sheds without any other major incident occurring and crippling me. I got changed, wiped most of the dirt off my countenance, and presented Giuseppe with her shirt back in the hope that she wouldn't notice the mud-stains (although now I've published that on the internet, I doubt she can help but notice. Sorry, Giuseppe. I'll wash it for you if you want). Never again, I swear. From now on, I'll stick to netball.

Netball is a sport I've been playing since year 7. At the moment, Marie-Clare is on my team. Our training begins at five in the afternoon, one day a week. As school ends at 3:30, this gives us an hour and a half free, normally spent in the library. There are any number of interesting things to do there, contrary to what you might think. 

For example, they've taken down the picture of Hugh Laurie. Travesty, I know. I've been thinking of getting a petition up to bring it back. I probably won't, although anyone else is welcome to. They've replaced it with one of Stephen Hawking. When Marie-Clare discovered this, she folded up into a gentle heap beneath the new poster and moaned for a good couple of minutes. She then stood up, brushed herself off, said 'I'm actually a big fan of Stephen Hawking' and left. If only we could all get over loss that quickly. The Twilight poster is still there, although there is now a Batman one near it. Peanut was thrilled.

Another thing we did before netball this week was to re-enact John Lennon's death scene in the 800-900 row of the nonfiction section. I was Mark Chapman. Marie-Clare was the Beatle himself. Lala was Yoko Ono. Apple provided a surprisingly convincing Sean Lennon. So far as I know, it's the only death scene ever in which the victim turned to the potential murderer after a single shot and yelled 'It's five shots! John Lennon was shot five times! You have to shoot me again!'

Netball training itself paled in comparison. The keeping-fit plan is not going to be a successful one, I fear. Take right now. I could be out exercising. Instead I'm sitting at home, listening to my blue iPod and typing this. Still, who needs it? Physical Education is, I'm sure, occasionally useful, but I wouldn't like to live there.

And I can say this confidently, with the knowledge that it is still a year until the next Athletics Carnival.

You want to know how I got this scar?

I was talking to Shoelace on the bus today. We bus home together in the afternoons. Well, we bus home together every day we don't have sport, or other commitments. That comes out to about two or three days a week. But it still counts.

She had, in a moment of typical generosity, taken the last seat available, leaving me to stand up. I was telling her about my current Media project when she interrupted.  I hoped she was going to ask a relevant question. Instead she said 'How did you get that scar on your chin?'

Seeing as I've known her for something like three years now, I'm surprised it's taken her this long to notice it. Still, I suppose the bus seat gave her a vantage point that was far lower than she's previously had, and so better equipped her to see the scar.

I actually got my scar about seven or eight years ago, when I was seven or eight. I went round a corner far too fast on my bike, fell over, and somehow managed to land on my chin. Even I can't remember how I did it (although I seem to have a knack for injuring strange places; a few weeks ago I fell over [it was Gwen's fault] and managed to injure the backs of my hands. Just the backs. The palms were barely touched). I do remember being extraordinarily pissed off that the flowery leggings I was wearing at the time had a hole in them, thanks to being scraped along the ground. Obviously having to go to hospital and get stitches in my chin, then having to spend a year in bed ( I was seven: it was probably a week, but it felt like a year) was far less important than this. The story ends with me, scarred for life with a kind of squiggle under my chin, and my leggings, considerably improved with an awesome patch sewn over one knee.

Obviously this story is not interesting enough for social occasions, so I gave Shoelace the answer I normally give to people under these circumstances, which is 'I had a freak accident with a tuna fish.'

She was intrigued. 'How long ago was this?'

I, unsure how I'd manage to carry this off, went 'Oh, about two years ago.'

'Two years? I should have noticed it before! Wait, how did you manage to cut yourself on a tuna fish?'

Come to think of it, I wasn't totally sure. Time for some creative improvisation. 'I was swimming in the sea when I came up rather sharply behind this tuna fish. They have incredibly sharp tails. And so, I was given this cut on my chin. You see how it's kind of wobbly? That's because tuna don't have straight tails.'

'That's incredibly lucky. Imagine, if it had been somewhere else on your face, you might have been scarred for life on your cheek or something.'

I didn't think I could carry it off much longer. Honestly, I've never been that good at keeping a straight face. 'That wasn't true.'

'What?'

'I fell off my bike a few years ago and was scarred. Did you believe me?'

'Um . . . of course not.'

'You know that 'gullible' is written on the ceiling?'

'Shut up!'

And she changed the subject rather hastily, and began talking about how she'd made a cake that weekend instead.