Sophie prompted this post with a small comparison she made about fungus on a tree being like scabs on her post about a walk here. And then it made me think back to those primary school years:
Oh how often we fell over when we were young! I always remember having to go to the medical room after having fallen over with a big bleeding cut/scratch on my knee. Not one of those monumental long scabs which suggested a slalom-style skid on a patch of skin, but just the general fall over and scrape the asphalt which resulted in blood outpouring in the lesser or more degree. They always stung like anything, some sort to disinfectant would then be applied (For the record, I really loathe the smell of TCP but I adore the smell of Dettol!) and then the worst bit....
THE PLASTERSSSSSSSSSSS.
(Band-Aids or Adhesive bandages if you are from the US)
Urgh, school plasters were the WORST. These square-shaped lolloping great things that were always saggy and failed to stay on properly. I really would rather bleed then wear them. They were always several tones too pale for my skin too.
At home, my Mum would then take off the offending inferior plaster and change it for the opposite, the 'cling to your skin no matter what', thick, textured adhesive as strong as super-glue variety which wouldn't come off for love, nor money. These were several shades darker, almost a brick red shade and more rectangular (with curved edges_)
As the years went on, my utter emnity towards the offending items grew to the extent that the sight of them makes me shudder. I cannot, will not have a plaster unless I can absolutely not avoid it and if I do, it sets my teeth on edge and fills me with a disturbing sense of unease.
Why?
Well, let me enlighten you...
1. Those really strong ones ALWAYS, left a really disgusting nasty dark outline from the plaster once you removed them. You would see a shadow of the former plaster left on your skin like the mocking echo of school yard bullies from some school-based drama. You'd try to scrape it off carefully, avoiding the wound, but it wouldn't come off and the feeling of fingernails against that gluey, sticky nasty dark matter made me wince. You'd gingerly try to scrub the skin in the bath, striving to avoid contact with the scab/wound.
2. The actual removal of the plaster. Remember I mentioned how strong the adhesive was? The actual removal of the plaster was always traumatic. I am recoiling as I recall the feeling of trying to remove one. You'd grasp, scrabbling with fingernails at the edges, trying to find a weak spot to remove and then, begin the procedure. You know the old adage or saying about it being better to remove the plaster quickly or something of that ilk? No. I dispute that. It hurts like hell and then you don't know if you've accidentally ripped something else off (like a bit of the scab which might have been unfortunately touched by the edge of the adhesive. But, almost equally as bad is the slow progression of pulling the plaster. Skin, hairs, anything that was below gets removed. I'm not sure which is worse but I will always remove them slowly. I definitely remember several scabs accidentally being ripped off by a clumsily-placed plaster.
3. The unknown. You never know exactly how it is healing underneath. This makes me uneasy.
4. In regard to point 3, the feeling once it is removed upon discovering the wound is still not ready for the world, means another plaster!
5. The colour! I mentioned the colour earlier. I HATED those nasty variations on flesh-coloured. Equally though, I feel very ill-disposed towards those decorative plasters, especially kiddy ones with cartoon characters. I flatly refused one of those once upon being a offered one. DON'T try to make them look pretty- they are not pretty, even if they have paisley on them or Mario! Also, those catering ones that are bright blue are equally alarming.
6. I also associate plasters with dirty boys! I was not fond of the average boy when I was a girl. I only liked the clean, quiet ones. I did not like those ones who had scabs and scratches the size of cars. They would always come into class with a plaster which they would promptly and nonchalantly peel off and discard. The offending bloody-ball of puss would be beneath, festering like some sort of witch's boil. Boy injuries were always so much worse than girl injuries. Even now when I see boys and girls with plasters, I shudder inwardly and find a reason to be elsewhere.
7. Plasters at swimming pools: public pools inevitably end up with with the odd plaster floating in them and certainly they did more when I was growing up. In my head, as I progressed and one loomed towards me, I would ruminate anxiously over whether it was an injury plaster, a jewellery plaster or worse, a verruca plaster! Yes, at the swimming pool, I think of those when I see a plaster!
8. It's really hard to actually put them on straight and judge where they will go up to (well it is if you are me!)
I do apologise if I have inadvertently put you off your cup of tea that you were so blithely sipping as you advanced through this post, but this is 'one of those blog posts'. And in conclusion, if I ever meet you, please don't be offended if you catch me looking at your plaster emblazoned body-part uneasily and shifting from foot to foot, if you are unfortunate enough to be sporting one upon our encounter. I mean nothing personally, it is just some irrational fear that links me to a myriad childhood traumatic plaster-related memories.
Please note, I have included no accompanying image for this post, since unlike mushrooms (one of my other loathings), plasters are NEVER pretty and their visual manifestation has no place here on KezzieAG!
Over to you...
What are your memories of plasters in your childhood? Did you have many injuries? Do you abhor them like me? Do you have any associations like these?
x
Oh how often we fell over when we were young! I always remember having to go to the medical room after having fallen over with a big bleeding cut/scratch on my knee. Not one of those monumental long scabs which suggested a slalom-style skid on a patch of skin, but just the general fall over and scrape the asphalt which resulted in blood outpouring in the lesser or more degree. They always stung like anything, some sort to disinfectant would then be applied (For the record, I really loathe the smell of TCP but I adore the smell of Dettol!) and then the worst bit....
THE PLASTERSSSSSSSSSSS.
(Band-Aids or Adhesive bandages if you are from the US)
Urgh, school plasters were the WORST. These square-shaped lolloping great things that were always saggy and failed to stay on properly. I really would rather bleed then wear them. They were always several tones too pale for my skin too.
At home, my Mum would then take off the offending inferior plaster and change it for the opposite, the 'cling to your skin no matter what', thick, textured adhesive as strong as super-glue variety which wouldn't come off for love, nor money. These were several shades darker, almost a brick red shade and more rectangular (with curved edges_)
As the years went on, my utter emnity towards the offending items grew to the extent that the sight of them makes me shudder. I cannot, will not have a plaster unless I can absolutely not avoid it and if I do, it sets my teeth on edge and fills me with a disturbing sense of unease.
Why?
Well, let me enlighten you...
1. Those really strong ones ALWAYS, left a really disgusting nasty dark outline from the plaster once you removed them. You would see a shadow of the former plaster left on your skin like the mocking echo of school yard bullies from some school-based drama. You'd try to scrape it off carefully, avoiding the wound, but it wouldn't come off and the feeling of fingernails against that gluey, sticky nasty dark matter made me wince. You'd gingerly try to scrub the skin in the bath, striving to avoid contact with the scab/wound.
2. The actual removal of the plaster. Remember I mentioned how strong the adhesive was? The actual removal of the plaster was always traumatic. I am recoiling as I recall the feeling of trying to remove one. You'd grasp, scrabbling with fingernails at the edges, trying to find a weak spot to remove and then, begin the procedure. You know the old adage or saying about it being better to remove the plaster quickly or something of that ilk? No. I dispute that. It hurts like hell and then you don't know if you've accidentally ripped something else off (like a bit of the scab which might have been unfortunately touched by the edge of the adhesive. But, almost equally as bad is the slow progression of pulling the plaster. Skin, hairs, anything that was below gets removed. I'm not sure which is worse but I will always remove them slowly. I definitely remember several scabs accidentally being ripped off by a clumsily-placed plaster.
3. The unknown. You never know exactly how it is healing underneath. This makes me uneasy.
4. In regard to point 3, the feeling once it is removed upon discovering the wound is still not ready for the world, means another plaster!
5. The colour! I mentioned the colour earlier. I HATED those nasty variations on flesh-coloured. Equally though, I feel very ill-disposed towards those decorative plasters, especially kiddy ones with cartoon characters. I flatly refused one of those once upon being a offered one. DON'T try to make them look pretty- they are not pretty, even if they have paisley on them or Mario! Also, those catering ones that are bright blue are equally alarming.
6. I also associate plasters with dirty boys! I was not fond of the average boy when I was a girl. I only liked the clean, quiet ones. I did not like those ones who had scabs and scratches the size of cars. They would always come into class with a plaster which they would promptly and nonchalantly peel off and discard. The offending bloody-ball of puss would be beneath, festering like some sort of witch's boil. Boy injuries were always so much worse than girl injuries. Even now when I see boys and girls with plasters, I shudder inwardly and find a reason to be elsewhere.
7. Plasters at swimming pools: public pools inevitably end up with with the odd plaster floating in them and certainly they did more when I was growing up. In my head, as I progressed and one loomed towards me, I would ruminate anxiously over whether it was an injury plaster, a jewellery plaster or worse, a verruca plaster! Yes, at the swimming pool, I think of those when I see a plaster!
8. It's really hard to actually put them on straight and judge where they will go up to (well it is if you are me!)
I do apologise if I have inadvertently put you off your cup of tea that you were so blithely sipping as you advanced through this post, but this is 'one of those blog posts'. And in conclusion, if I ever meet you, please don't be offended if you catch me looking at your plaster emblazoned body-part uneasily and shifting from foot to foot, if you are unfortunate enough to be sporting one upon our encounter. I mean nothing personally, it is just some irrational fear that links me to a myriad childhood traumatic plaster-related memories.
Please note, I have included no accompanying image for this post, since unlike mushrooms (one of my other loathings), plasters are NEVER pretty and their visual manifestation has no place here on KezzieAG!
Over to you...
What are your memories of plasters in your childhood? Did you have many injuries? Do you abhor them like me? Do you have any associations like these?
x