Aged about five, I found a long stick that was about the same height as me. For some unknown reason, I decided to walk down the street pushing the stick along, with one end pushing along the pavement, the other end in my mouth. Perhaps I knew this was risky play, like running with scissors, or sticking a loaded gun in your trousers, but it didn’t take very long for the risk to be realised: the stick to hitting an obstacle, stopping dead, the stick jamming into the roof of my mouth, making it bleed. I still have the scar in my mouth to remind me of my stupidity, but I suppose did serve a purpose in that my little experiment did convince me never to walk around pushing along with my mouth again.
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