Right. Some background. There is a pond down by the halls in which I live, and it looks lovely, and there are ducklings, but it smells odd, and we’ve been hearing rumours all year that people who fall in the pond are whisked off immediately for any number of jabs and inspections and medical hoohah. Today is beautifully sunny and warm, and what looks like the entire student village is sprawled about on any bit of grass they can shotgun, wearing rather less than normal and getting burned, feeding the ducklings, revising, chatting, playing guitars and some have even dragged their kitchen tables outside to sit around and work sensibly. It’s all rather charming, though as the sun begins to go down people are now drifting inside.
I have just got out of the shower.
Surely you’ve guessed what has just happened by now? Yes, that’s right. Someone’s rugby ball ended up in the pond, and the two lads who were playing with it were rather wussily poking at it with twigs and throwing things into the pond to try and drift it shorewards; contemplating hoopla-ing it with the life ring, and otherwise Being Ridiculous.
So, of course, I womanfully rolled up my jeans to the knee, marched down to the pond, and waded in. What I didn’t know is that just after the cobbled slip into the pond hits the water, it suddenly drops away to silty, oily nothingness. Had I not been surprised by this change in terrain I wouldn’t have fallen over, but fall I did, right in to the pond, on one side, up to my neck. Thankfully my head didn’t get submerged otherwise perhaps right now I’d be hanging about in some surgery waiting to have needles jabbed into every inch of skin, tablets washed down with horrible hospital ‘fruit’ squash, and so on. Anyway, I rescued the rugby ball and have just spent the last age in the shower, I’ve put the clothes I was wearing into a very hot wash, and have contemplated the use of bleach to clean my body before I dry myself off, but it’s probably a bad plan, so I won’t, I’ll just hope for the best. The receptionist at the entrance to our student village has told me I should be fine, but that I should keep a serious eye on the cut I recieved on my foot and keep it as clean as I possibly can.
Anyway, it’s a story very typical of me. No patience with idiots, a gung-ho idiot bravery, and pondweed, dead leaves, and black, oily scum all over the floor of my soon-to-be-vigourously-mopped shower! Thankfully I find the whole thing hilarious, as do my loving flatmates… .