Yesterday I broke my 10 year old nephew’s 10 year old arm.
Before someone grasses me up and has the police kicking my door down I should say that it was not my fault, it was my nephew’s fault. “Wait a minute, Dean couldn’t be so low as to blame his own nephew?” I hear you cry. The answer is yes, yes I am blaming him.
We were playing football in the cage when he dived into a tackle on me. Now I just stood there while he dived into me, bounced off my body and landed on his arm on the concrete.
Being the caring person I am when I stopped laughing I stopped the game and helped him up. Within an hour he was swinging his arms around and mucking about with the other kids as normal so I did not think it was anything serious.
His mum, being the typical crybaby mother, who thinks her child breathing means they have terminal stage cancer, rushed him up the hospital when he complained of a tingling sensation and it turns out he has a teeny tiny hairline fracture in his arm.
On the bad side the family are all blaming me (apparently I should be some sort of ghost so he could go through me) but on the plus side it means that he won’t be getting me into trouble with the caretakers over him and his mate smashing up cabinets, thule racks and Wendy houses all over the estate.
And it means his mother won’t be nagging at me for a while as she has the hump with me.
On Facebook the guilt trips have long since started with both my nephew and my own mother saying things like “you broke my arm” and “aww poor jack has a broken arm ”.
Now I’m off to steal sweets from babies who have been left in their prams outside sweetshops.