A pint of bitter shandy – to start with
I didn’t cry the first time my nose was broken on the rugby field, but when the Games Master pushed a finger up each nostril and squeezed, the tears began to flow. I was even more regretful in detention the following afternoon. ‘You shouldn’t have called Mr. Davies a bastard,’ my Form Teacher advised.
When I played Old Boys’ rugby, the nose treatment became a not uncommon event. There was always at least one doctor in the team and often another watching. My worst experience of injury was holding a fellow player still while his ear was sewn back on.
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