I'm not that Jill. The inept one immortalised in verse.
I didn’t tumble.
My brother fell over his own pail. Went sprawling onto the lush, soft sward. Suffered a grass stain to his cheek. Thus grievously wounded, he raced home wailing of concussion and imminent death.
The vinegar was clearly a placebo — as Mother applied the brown paper she mouthed ‘Man Injury' over his head.
So Lord Muck languished abed, and Muggins copped extra chores. By tea-time I'd fetched water, churned butter, darned socks, carded a fleece and built a dry-stone wall.
Inept Jill? Pah! That's a damned patriarchal lie.
© Jane Bidder