Jumper

Stricken with flu at the moment, reminds me of a time when my older brother, Robert, jumped down from a high place in the grotto in Sefton Park, Liverpool and bit into his own knee.

A simple kid thing, jumping, lots of elastic and damping working for you, and in this case, he just over extended and his teeth impacted his knee, no big deal.

What was to be a big deal happened next as we went to the big pond and wet a hanky and cleaned the wound for him, doing the right thing in a very wrong way, a pond where old men spat, little kids widdled and gosh knows what else.

I recall Rob, a few days later, with a bottle of pink stuff from Doctor Forshaw, laid out on the couch, almost at deaths door with a hugely inflamed and swollen leg, waiting for that new fangled penicillin to take effect, of course, as kids always did back then, he survived to jump another day.