It's Genetic

Blame this story on Wendyas her comment reminded me of this little story.

When I was growing up, my father rode motorbikes. Very occassionally I would be taken on the back of one. I think this is where my love of speed may have come from. It is probably genetic as well.

Anyway, one day, when I was about 9, my father was riding home from work, and having stopped off at the shops, was leaving the car park (probably at a furious rate of knots, knowing him) when a car reversed out of its spot and knocked him off the bike. Or should I say, knocked the bike onto him. Basically, he lowsided, but the bike landed on him, pinning his ankle under the foot peg, and he skidded a great distance on his butt. He was only wearing jeans, so they wore out pretty quickly. He was taken off to hospital, and experienced the humiliation of having to spend his time face down as the new nurse stopped everyone that passed by to show them her handy work at cleaning up his shredded buttocks.

He was able to come home on crutches, as his ankle, although gouged and bloodied, was not broken.

At this point I should probably explain that my father is not a small man. In those days he seemed colossal (especially to me and my sister). He was 6'3" and a solid build. He was a policeman, so he knew how to use his size in a way that could intimidate. And he was also not a patient man. Being limited to the uncoordinated hop-step-hop-step of the crutches infuriated him.

The house we were living in at the time was a pretty conventional post war brick home, 2 bedrooms and a long corridor that ran up the centre to the bathroom. Leading from the tiled bathroom to the carpeted hallway was a small lip... you can see where this is going.

My father had been to the bathroom, and as he left, both crutches caught on this lip, and he slowly, ever so slowly, began falling forwards. There was nothing for him to grab onto on either side of the hallway, and the only word that could encapsulate the moment was "TIIIIIIMBER".

I doubt very much whether my sister or I would have been brave enough to laugh, but my mother (a nurse, no less, the compassionate profession *cough*) was in tears, howling with laughter.

Suffice to say, my father did not see the humour in it.

I might have inherited his ungainliness, but thank god I got her sense of humour!