David was only ever interested in creating games that had at least a 95% chance of getting hurt. Otherwise why would you bother playing them? Well it must have been one Sunday afternoon because all things of any note at the Baskerville’s happen on that day. Sunday was after all the decreed day of rest, well so Mum & Dad thought as they retired to their room and all the kids headed off to theirs like rabbits down their warrens. It would only take about 20 minutes of looking blankly at the ceiling before rocks began bouncing off the bedroom window. It was David’s call sign for all those wanting to break boot camp, go AWOL and shimmy out the window and off to do some mischief. Well this particular day David had discovered Dad’s old dart board under the house and it was a little worse for wear. Still, you could make out the faint black & gold colourings that confirmed it had in some previous age been used as a revered game of skill. On closer inspection one could see that there was a hole in the place that once held top prize, the bulls eye! So here was the game with the greatest chance of getting hurt. David would throw the dart high into the air and us younger siblings would run around in a state of hysteria underneath the plummeting missile and try to land the dart on the board and secure the highest score. It was obvious to us younger brothers, even without being told, that it was not real smart to keep your thumbs on the top of the board. Why give him such pleasure without at least putting up some intellectual resistance? Well it had to happen. The dart had been thrown, my sweaty palms were in position safely under the board. My eyes were fixed keenly on the feathered demon, my feet were firmly planted, all that was left to do was to wait. Well, the last thing I recall hearing, as I ran up the back stairs with a dart firmly fixed in my right foot, was David’s trailing voice saying, Don’t tell Mum!.
