I was a pretty accident prone kid. Come to think of it, I'm still a bit of a clutz, but at least I don't seriously injure myself enough these days to require trips to the hospital or ambulance station. Anyway, up until I was fourteen I was getting into all manner of strife. There were many trips to outpatients, and they weren't all just limited to the day time either.
On this particular occasion I was eight, maybe nine, and I was going to my bedroom to get something from under my bed. My bed at the time was a solid metal construction, with a wooden backboard and shelf that had a place for a small bedside light. I had to share the room with my brother until we both became teenagers, then we finally got our own room each. I stayed indoors, he got the rear end of the garage which was converted in a bedroom by my father.
This was at a time when there weren't many overriding concerns about safety standards with children's beds, cots, toys, etc. I discovered the hard way that they're called corners for a reason, and as I knelt down in the dark to get whatever it was I was after, my head bumped into a corner, just above the eye. I recall screaming, bleeding, and being bundled into the back of the Kingswood and rushed off to hospital around 8 – 9pm.
Today I still have small scar, hidden by the eyebrow to remind me of this little incident. I look back and think that had I hit my head a centimetre lower, I could have been blinded in that eye. Somehow I was lucky in my misfortune.