This tale doesn’t have a picture. You will see as it progresses why I couldn’t post one.
At the end of February, I was packing up from a show in Indian Wells. The booth is constructed of walls that come in two pieces, and these go six to a bag (three tops, three bottoms). Individual wall halves weigh about seven and a half pounds (about 3.5 kilos for my European fans), so not difficult to lift, but can be awkward to handle in small spaces as they’re about 3 feet/1 meter square, especially if the wind catches them. The sides have metal bars that accommodate velcro straps top and bottom, and the bottoms also have wind-out adjustable feet.
I’d packed the art and two bags of walls, which were laying at the back of the booth. I took down another top half, and to this day I don’t know whether I caught it on the side of the desk, tripped over something, or the wind caught the wall, but down we went. The wall went off in its own direction and I went onto the two bags of walls. I mentioned the hard little feet, didn’t I. I caught myself right on the padding. The girl padding. Really hard.
Aaargh, I groaned out loud, and clutched at the point of impact. The guy from the next booth came running over. What happened? I hit my tit, I groaned. Sorry, girlfriend, I can’t help you with that. By this time I realize that I didn’t break any bones, am not bleeding, and it’s one of these things that I’ll laugh about later. So I started laughing now. At this point the couple who across the aisle run over. What happened? I hit my tit, I laughed between painful groans while rolling around on the floor clutching the area of pain. I looked up at the three of them and they’re all standing there groaning and laughing in sympathy, and holding the same body area that I am.
I ended up with two bruises the same size and shape as the booth feet. One green one black. Now you know why I can’t post a picture.