He sat down beside her and asked how she’d hurt her leg. “I broke my f***ing leg in f***ing Lourdes.”
The lady went on to explain that she’d never been out of Ireland before, that it was hot in Lourdes and how, seeing some stretchers on the side of the street, she’d decided to take a quick rest in one of them.
She fell asleep and, the next thing she knew, she was being carried in procession into the Grotto with the sick. She tried to explain to the young volunteers carrying her that she wasn’t ill, but they were unable to understand her Irish accent.
She decided to get out of the stretcher by herself. In trying to do so, she managed to overturn it and she fell to the ground.
“And that,” she told my father, “is how I broke my f***ing leg in f***ing Lourdes!”
[My father didn’t use bad language and was reluctant even to say “effing” in recounting the story. The old lady, apparently, had no qualms at all…]
[Image by Manu25 under the terms of the Gnu Free Documentation License.]