Death Comes A Knockin', aka The 7 Things

The 7 things, being mainly about death. Late to my tagging duties as per.

Last year it was Eight Interesting (or otherwise) Things, in grim, recession-bound 2008, we're down to Seven.
Bit of a struggle, frankly, to come up with some more, and fear that of all the things to dwell on, this lot seems mostly regarding blood.

1. I saw a UFO when I was 16. In Spain. It was officially recognised as such the next day in France. So it must be true. For the curious, it was an inverted pink triangle high high in the sky at about 6 in the evening against a vivid blue sky. Oh yes.

2. I have been involved in numerous road accidents, starting at four with being knocked over by a motorcycle and needing stitches in my head.
I sold my moped following the 7th near miss with that particular beast, thinking I’d pushed my luck.
But, even now, I’m still rubbish with roads although, touch wood, I have never caused an accident.
I must be lucky, though, because I was born with a hole in my heart. No chest ripping surgery, just popped in an incubator for a few weeks and right as rain thereafter. Nearly endured death by earring too. On having my ears pierced I fainted three times which was just the start of a short-lived relationships with lobal jewellery. I developed some form of septicaemia and that was nearly that.

3. I once had to operate the Spitting Images eyes of the Princess Fergie puppet. Big horribly rubbery thing and hard work or what.

4. I escaped by the skin of my teeth being dragged into some vile porn film once. Shudder. I blogged about it for the old CL competition thing. The blog had been in fond memory of a dear friend who, er, died. We escaped together through a bathroom window and ran through a coal black South London night. Happy days.

5. I have had millions of miscarriages. Don’t be silly, Milla, learn to count. At least 7 or 8. Vile, painful. Black, dark days. I may blog about the last one, given the mood I’m in, one of these fine days.

6. I worked, as a student, running the bar in private parties at let’s call it a Very Important Hotel in London. Very Hotel Babylon. Was Utterly Shocked when the other bar runners barged in and out of all the rooms the moment the tipsy “clients” waddled off downstairs to scoff in the hall, before re-emerging, even more pissed, to finish what they started. My, ahem, colleagues just started grabbing and tipping away bottle after bottle after bottle of gin, scotch, vodka. We were paid commission, you see, according to what the clients consumed – whether by mouth or down the plug hole. And we were subject to random searches on the way out, rendering theft dodgy. Have to say I never participated. Nor was I searched. Honest, me. And that’s true. Although there was nothing doing but to scoop my share of the commission. Hush money maybe.

7. On my way to one of these work dos, I saw a man killed. He was an American trying to cross Park Lane. Silly man. He looked left instead of right and was tossed in the air by a thundering coach. Like the proverbial rag doll he was until he landed with his knees bent back the wrong way, and his specs 100 yards down the road and his shoes in the central reservation.
I’d seen another killed the minute I turned up in Florence, another man sent flying. The blood from that one you would not believe. It haunts me still. And the sense of my face peering through the railings and my hands gripping at the iron. But I’ve had a soft spot for Jessica from Murder She Wrote ever since. Random deaths DO happen. Just be very afraid when you’re around me …

As usual, am sure I’m the last to do this little one.