Wednesday, 1 March 2017

Stiltskinskid.


The other day, when running for the train, I slipped on a banana skin.

I never believed this was possible; I thought it was an urban myth put around by the anti-fruit brigade to inspire panic. Apparently I was wrong; on the basis of new evidence I can state without fear of hyperbole that the general public are at constant threat from fatal, life-changing, irreversible movement-restricting injuries as a result of irresponsibly discarded peel: just passing a chip shop could result in a catastrophic fall leading to mass limb-removal surgery of the sort that would leave you just a torso and a neck - and all because the staff dispose of their skins in a reckless manner; don’t let it be said that you haven’t been warned.

Thankfully my literal run-in with banana peel didn’t result in a man-down incident, merely putting me in a careering yet controllable skid. It was only on glancing back as I continued my station-heading sprint that I saw the unlikely culprit, which led to a one-word exclamation:

“Seriously?" I said. I didn't know my life was drawn by Hanna-Barbera.

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