My son decided to attack himself with a razor tonight. Fortunately, it was only because he was trying to shave, like Daddy. Two year olds don’t tend to act with suicidal intent.
He’s fine – a little bloodied and he did tell me that he didn’t think he would try shaving again – but the episode got me thinking about, well, a memory I ought to have and don’t have.
On my right knee I have a very white scar. It is about three centimetres long and half of one wide (that’s just over an inch by about a quarter of one, for those of you who have not discovered the modern world yet). I know that I did it at some time when I lived in Dundee and I have a vague memory of falling over on a walk down an unmade road or country footpath – but that is also how I broke my arm a few years before then, so I could be getting muddled there.
I also remember having a white lint dressing over the wound, with elastoplast holding it in place on all four sides, but I have no idea how long that went on for.
Oh, and I know I didn’t have it stitched, because there are no exit holes for the thread (somewhat remarkably, I’ve only ever had three lots of stitches).
And the really odd thing is that, during our short time in Scotland, I ended up with at least two trips to hospital (including two of those lots of stitches) and yet I have almost no scarring from those incidents. But the big white scar, well, I can only guess at what happened.