My self inflicted ridiculous injuries seemed to get less after I grew up, but the end of them was marked with a big one.

I was 22, and had been working the Friday all day and was a couple of hours into another double shift on the Saturday as a bar manager. It was around lunchtime and the overall pub manager decided to put in an appearance, with an attitude of someone who was up very late and hadn’t really been to bed yet. I was not in the mood and decided today was the day to tell him to ‘do it himself then’ and storm out, which I did.

Then proceeding to go to the park instead with my friends on that hot sunny day and have a few drinks. Naturally staying in the park seemed boring so it was decided to go to the woods to check out a potential party site that we had heard about. My friends were a bit of a party lot. Cue a drive up into the woods and a small trek to a patch with a big dip and a rope swing. Yes, the rope swing. Can you guess what happened next?

Well, in my vaguely drunken and annoyed state, I had deduced that it would be a good idea to have a go on the rope swing. Got myself into position and swung out, but knew the moment I did, something was off. Nothing was wrong with the branch or the rope, but it was me. In my head for a split second I had been 12 again, full of it and bold. But in my stupor had misjudged it, the weight ratio was off and I knew I couldn’t swing round the tree and back onto my feet. No, I was going to swing out and straight back into the tree itself.

But there really was nothing I could do by that point except be correct. It happened as I saw it, I swung into the tree, hitting my ankle as I did and then back out into the middle of the area, still holding onto the rope and stick for a seat. The drop was about 10 feet, so I didn’t want to knowing I would land on my ankle. I didn’t have a choice, I dropped to the floor. The pain was immense and I started to try and stand before I realised it was really bad. The male friends I was with said I would be fine and disappeared over the way to check out the site, leaving one with me to try and help me walk. Minutes later they returned and leaned over the edge saying,

“Oh shit, is she still crying, we better get her out of there”…

Luckily they came through when they knew I was really hurt, carrying me back to the car and getting me to the hospital. Where I got given a tubigrip and a pair of crutches and told to go to the general hospital over 10 miles away – cue another favour from a friend. I happened to chose a bank holiday weekend for my injury so it was packed and faced with a minimum four hour wait and in lots of pain, I went home to return the next day.

So finally two days later what turns out to be a broken ankle is fixed, my leg is in cast and I am signed off work. I learnt my lesson there to not drink when annoyed, don’t think you are young when you are not, and don’t let people get to you. Easier said than done sometimes!…

(c) K Wicks

I’m not sure if everyone was prone to accidents when they were a child, I was sort of a tomboy and liked getting into it and giving it a go, which given my lack of awareness and balance, often led to some comedic accidents.

One of which I will share as it still amuses me very much to this day. As the title suggests, it does indeed involve a hay bale. So, I am 12 at the time, I lived in Hampshire as part of an army camp but not a restricted one. Squaddie brat was the term for us kids of the military folk and I think I lived up to the name quite well. We used to have to find things to occupy ourselves outside of school as all children do although on Thursdays I did used to attend cadets. During the specific school holidays the army were very good at providing activities and schemes for us while parents still had to work. These would include shooting, swimming, PT and other type things. But the rest of the time, we were mostly up to no good.

We were lucky enough to be surrounded by lots of countryside, fields and woods and as much adventuring as we could fit it. But come the late summer we had lots of large round hay bales begin to appear in field out the back of our estate. A game was devised, or trick if you will. Here it was, push the one ton hay bale down the slight incline of the hill, grab onto the netting covering said hay bale, hook your fingers into it and get pulled over with the now moving bale. The trick being a crafty leg swing as you are pulled over the top, and releasing your fingers at the same time. Which all going well, puts you in front of the hay bale while it now picks up speed down to the bottom of the field.

The principle was simple, and I see two of my friends complete this seemingly new manoeuvre without any issue or hesitation. I know what must be done and take my turn. But what I didn’t factor into this, was my lack of skill. I did not lack bravery or willing when I was younger, but as I got older the evidence became clear that I lacked skill, and this is what kept leading me into injury.

So, I stepped up to my hay bale and gave it a push, both hands in front of me starting the motion, I chose my moment to grip onto the plastic netting and was instantly pulled upwards towards the top. I swung my legs round as best I could planning the same smooth stunt I had witnessed, but something went wrong. My fingers didn’t unwrap from the netting, my legs didn’t quite go all the way round, and instead of jumping in front of it, I went with it. Imagine a steam roller made of hay with a person on it. That’s what happened. I went straight over the front of it and then proceeded to be crushed by it. Luckily only having some bruises and cuts on my face and a sore rib cage. I had to go home to my mother an explain why I had odd scratches and bruises down one side of my face. She laughed, a lot.

I would like to say that was a one off, an isolated incident, but I would be lying. My younger years really were filled with a number of mishaps…

(c) K Wicks photographer