They say, don’t they, that Pride Comes Before A Fall.
I should have predicted it, really. There I was, in full Being
Prepared mode before my appointment with the orthopaedic surgeon (I call her Tigger, because she is so very, well, bouncy) next Tuesday. My Christmas cards are written, envelopes addressed and stamps affixed. A few presents awaited wrapping and I had a list
of various items - mostly Food Related - for Mr B which I needed to buy in before I headed off into hospital. But, hey, I had six whole days to go which was plenty of time to finish off my preparations. I was so very proud of myself.
Until I fell over the back door step into the kitchen, landing on the floor in a tangled (and excruciatingly painful) heap. I kid you not, it was one of my more spectacular Falls From Grace. It was
just a pity there was nobody around to witness it, Mr B being snoozing happily in his armchair in the living room, unaware of the drama unfolding in the kitchen.
am well known in the family for my unfortunate tendency to fall down steps - and, just as often, up steps. My most famous to date was on the occasion of the Youngest of the Darling Daughters’ wedding. My poor daughter has to fast forward through her
wedding video when it gets to the point in the service when, having read that passage from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin about olive trees growing together, their roots entwining till they are inextricably linked, I fell down the altar steps and into the
congregation where Mr B somehow managed to break my fall, his cricket training as first slip coming to my rescue. Obviously, unlike the olive trees, I wasn’t sufficiently rooted to the ground.
Yesterday there was no congregation to gasp at my downfall. I decided to lie there on the floor for a while to consider my options - limited though they appeared to be at the time. I spent a few pointless moments thinking
“if only...” As in, if only I hadn’t unpacked all the frozen food which had been delivered so early in the morning, stacked it in the fridge in the garage, then found I had left a solitary tub of ice cream behind. Making my way outside to
revisit the garage, I realised that I had locked the garage door so I turned swiftly on my heel to collect the key from the back door and, instead...
After a while
I dismissed these thoughts as unhelpful and tried to work out if I could move my legs and wriggle my fingers. My head, all things considered, seemed remarkably clear. Given that my limbs and extremities appeared to be in working order, there was a good chance,
I felt, that I might be able to get myself up off the floor. So it proved - and after some ungainly scrambling I staggered into the living room and draped myself on Mr B’s recliner chair, feeling more than a little queasy.
That’s where Kay, who helps me keep my house in order, found me. In no time at all I was provided with a hot water bottle for my painful back, paracetamol for Medical Intervention, a large bowl
(just in case), a mug of coffee (she knows me so well) and many comforting words (to ease wounded feelings.) She wouldn’t leave, she avowed, until she was sure I could rise from the recliner without collapsing again. I did feel a little guilty about
the state of my kitchen: “It looks as if you had a party last night!” Oh, I wish, I wish...
The next arrival was the Lovely Louise who looks after Mr B but decided immediately that she
would accommodate two for the price of one, even to the extent of calling back in the evening to make our dinner, empty the washing machine and put the bins out - all jobs which were, for the moment, beyond me.
I have been known in the past, as regular readers know, to grumble mildly about our Piccadilly Circus Wednesdays when so many people arrive at our door, one after the other.