I was four years old, sat cross-legged on the living room floor and staring up at the telly on its reinforced table. This would be towards the stinky fag-end of the Seventies,when tellies were the size of two fridges welded together, encased in solid slabs of wood, and powered by crackling steampunk technology that required regular deliveries of coal, and the occasional insertion of a grimy operative who had to leave knotted ropes behind so he could find his way out of the back again.
Don't know what I was watching, although it was probably some documentary on the miners' strike (I was alone in taking the miners' side in my playground, as the talk in Norbreck Primary was mostly in favour of Thatcher smashing the unions. Gregory* Towers of 2B did once voice some disquiet about potential 'misuse of the police', but was shouted down and had his Tonka toys confiscated). Anyway, whatever was on telly, I wanted more of it, closer to me RIGHT NOW. So I grabbed the power cable (thickly-braided as a ship's cable) that stuck out to one side and heaved...
Hearing an odd noise from the other room, my mum entered the living room to find the television fully ten feet from its previous position and son 1 (me) lying flat on my back in the 'starfish' position, with a sizeable dent in my nose and a faraway look in my eyes.
For that day I had learnt an important lesson: by all means suckle the teat of the Bitch Goddess Television, but be aware that at any moment, she's quite likely to SMASH YOU IN THE FACE.
My dad has a proper broken nose, but he got that from a boxing match with the top school bully, which makes my dad ONE MILLION TIMES COOLER THAN I WILL EVER BE.**
* Or possibly it was his sister Malory.
** He didn't win, the top school bully beat the shit out of him, but never went near him again. Yay my dad.