I was playing cricket in the driveway with some neighbour-friends. There were three of us and each took turns to be bowler, batter, and fielder.

As an aside, I was quite a good cricketer when I was young and was eager to show my skills to my friends so when the ball was hit high and far over my head I ran as fast as I could to catch it.

I kept my eyes on the ball, head turned over my shoulder, impossible to see anything in front of me. After a second or three, I looked forward to get my bearings and as soon as I did the back of an old, metal bakkie (pickup truck I suppose) appeared out of nowhere.

I ran straight into it, face first. I remember looking down, through tears, at my hands where the blood pouring out of my mouth and pooling in my hands. The blood was flecked with a curious white substance that I later found out was half of my front tooth reduced to a fine powder.

physically or emotionally?

I was 11 or so, on holiday, went horseback riding wearing shorts and thin socks. They set up my stirrups too low and as I held on to the saddle for dear life, one stirrup kept bouncing on my ankle for the entire afternoon.

My thighs chafed pretty bad, and I got an open wound on my ankle about the size of those souvenir pressed oval coins. I don’t know what my dad was thinking, but he treated my wound with some cream and then wrapped my whole calf in plastic wrap every day for about a week.

The wound turned into an ulcer, I couldn’t walk without limping. I had all these little pockets of pus on the edges which my dad had me squeeze to try and make them smaller. It did nothing except be painful.

I eventually went home to my mom - a nurse - who took one look at my leg and rushed me to a doctor.

The doctor then proceeded to vigorously clean my wound before dressing it. It felt like hot barbed wire, that really sucked.

I still have the oval scar on my ankle.

1970s, uk, aged around 4 or 5, walking down the stairs carrying a glass when I tripped, Cut my right hand up pretty bad. My mum wrapped my hand in a towel and rushed me to a nearby army base where the medic did an effective but clumsy job of stitching me up - I still have a big scar but no movement damage.

I have no memory of it, but my father certainly does. When he came home from work to find the house with its doors wide open, blood everywhere, and nobody around, he kind of freaked out.

When I was 8 I tried to climb a cupboard, like 1 or 2 meters tall, fell on my back, had one of those fiction moments when time is too slow and I had to experience double pain, I couldn’t speak, move, and it was hard to breath.

Climbed a tree, tried to jump to the next tree. Failed. Fortunately, I snagged a wasp nest on the way down. Nothing broken, anaphylaxis. Not breathing sucks. (I lived.)