When I was at school, I opted for trampolining in PE because it meant getting to jump around aimlessly with your friends while watching Sophie West’s boobs bounce up and down quite vigorously, rather than having the boys from the year above slide tackle me in the rain. Anyway, I digress, the trampolines we had were huge things that folded up like sandwiches and had to be wheeled out by us like we were armies of ants carrying a twig, and then opened out. This opening out bit is where my problem with trampolines first arose.
You see, initially, the elastic stress of the huge rusty springs and the taut mesh made it pretty hard to open them out, but eventually they would reach a point at which the springs started to act in the opener’s favour. Then you quickly had to switch from pulling the two halves downwards to suddenly trying to hold them up as the big metal legs swung down to hold the extremities of the trampoline up. One day, the big metal leg landed on my foot and completely crushed my toe. The nail came straight off and I still have a very vivid image of my pristine white sock with blood seeping through it. I had to take my sock off but the broken nail was hooted to the fibres, making the experience even more unpleasant.
As time passed, I grew a new nail – however, the new nail was deformed. Thick and pointy like a raptor’s claw. I have had it for nine years now and it still upsets me. I forget about it most of the time, but if I think about it for any reason I can feel it touching on things. This is particularly bad when I am in bed and I feel the duvet resting on my claw. As soon as I feel it, I get squirmy and have to stick my foot out of the bed so it hangs suspended in the air and I can’t feel it rubbing anymore. This is why I hate trampolines and no flashbacks of Sophie West’s flying tits will ever change my feelings.