Strange Luck At The Southern Championships


Saturday is an early start. Before the sun rises from shapes in mist there is bacon, beans, egg and toast. I forgot my sunglasses, have to squint across Devon to the palm trees of Paignton, until I am in the hall that echoes with anxieties and gathered friends. Today I wear my yellow shirt: it means I am here to shoot troubles, shush nerves, mop stuff up. Today I have a solo small boy to usher, and one lost, and three wrong divisions in two adjacent rings. I have some permissions for photography to liase, one post-fight cry, one pre-fight potential sickness. Where am I queries go uncounted. Two please don't let me miss my fight but I need the loo dilemmas, one sorry kids you missed your call. One big yell for a medic to the men's tag team event. One bout of fielding medical questions to a crowd of puzzled children. A dislocated knee, I tell them, rarely fatal, often painful. Yes, to hospital, I tell them, he can have an anesthetic then while the patella is repositioned. Oh lucky, says a wide-eyed lad: I had that when a dog bit me it was the best sleep I ever had!
Assured that all is well off they run to find out more stuff about the world.

My niece and her beau bring back some Southern bling.  


Comments

Suze said…
I thoroughly enjoyed this post, Lisa. Almost envy you the energy of it all. :)
Hi-ya, Lisa. Good to see you again. And it really DOES seem like "seeing", you know. Your posts are always so deliciously descriptive, I feel like I'm right there with you, looking over your shoulder. I could almost smell the bacon and hear the buzz of excitement. Terrific post!
Lisa Southard said…
Thank you Suze (as always!) If you were here Susan I would have shared my bacon :-)

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