Speaking of cocktail mode, the highest injury I ever sustained was down to a cocktail (or tabletop) video game in Blackpool. That makes it sound like I was wrestling with one at the top of Blackpool Tower and fell to my almost certain doom, but what I actually mean is the highest on my person. The crown of my head – not quite the fontanelle, but close – sports a scar made invisible by my thick, roguish mane of beautiful, luxurious hair; it’s also probably considerably smaller by now than when it happened, compared to the size of my scalp, given I was but a wee mite when I inflicted it upon myself.
A lot of the apparently family-friendly pubs round there used to be dark affairs in places, with beer-sticky carpets and fag-heavy upholstery; the carpets themselves were odd when seen close up by a youngster, lurid yet somehow dull in paisley patterns of dark blue and orange. So a four-year-old could hare around considerably, firstly without their parents spotting them, and secondly without the toddlers themselves spotting the dangerously hard corners of obstacles in the room; especially if they were crawling round underneath them.
As far as I’m aware I stood up rather too early in my flight from under the video game, and considerably more rapidly than I should have. The rest is sadly all false memories, as beyond the carpets and the cocktail cabinets in the bar the only thing I can “remember” is the sight of the top of my own head. I asked my parents if they still knew where this happened, because they’ve banged on about it in the past; they can’t even be sure if it was in Blackpool or Fleetwood, which is rubbish. So the whole event is lost in the mists of time, until I start to reach my Grandad’s age and my hair thins out again, and by then I’ll probably have other things to worry about.