I was discussing favourite childhood books with a friend the other day, and we got onto the subject of classics. “I loved The Mill on the Floss“, I told her, “and I was worried I wouldn’t like it when I reread it again a couple of years ago, but it was as wonderful as ever.”
“Hang on,” she replied, “The Mill on the Floss was required reading in Preliminary Honours in 1961. You were a precocious brat.”
Yes, yes I was.
Some time ago, I broke my foot in a boxing class. I’m not even sure how I managed to do it – I wasn’t actually boxing at the time, just doing the warm-up exercise, which involved sprinting from one side of the room to the other when the trainer yelled “GO!”.
I tripped over something (myself? the floor? air?) and landed crumpled-up on my foot. It broke. I spent some time at home, not walking on it and keeping it strapped up and elevated, until it eventually healed.