My Second Scar

Tremendous parties were thrown at Sandringham Road, a five bedroom flat in Dalston where many of my friends lived at one point or another. Parties that anyone and everyone would attend, parties to which ambulances and police cars would be alerted to. They were truly magnificent parties.

Late at one party, one that was thrown after Lisa and I moved out of the place in favour of our new flat in the old red brick school house behind Whitechapel tube station,  we were standing in the hallway chatting. I was blind drunk and leaning against the door of the downstairs bathroom, which was closed off and being used to store lots of junk because the plumbing was faulty. The door opened with my weight, I fell inarticulately and, having no reactions through drunkenness, cut my head, just below my left eyebrow. I bled a great deal, and I would not stop bleeding. Lisa chastised me for being drunk (at a party) and for refusing to go to Accident and Emergency. You can barely see the scar now but it is there.

My second scar is quite boring but I thought that it was only fair to mention it after having told the story of my first. The fourth scar was the scariest, by the way, but only because I am not very good with scalpels.