Returning from a short walk this morning, nearly home, I broke into a run as it began to rain.
I immediately tripped and threw myself at the pavement. Of course, I could not have been moving at any great speed – I am 58 and not really in practice – but I certainly seemed to continue travelling forwards at high velocity as I hit the ground. Every one of my limbs made contact with concrete. I was spreadeagled and more than a little shocked and sweary, when I realised that, even worse, I had been witnessed by not one, but two people in their separate front gardens.
In this day and age, they did not rush to help me to my feet, but they did show a decent measure of concern and – horror – one of them called me by name when asking if I was ok. That’s just typical – not only was I properly hurting, but now also embarrassed to be seen by someone I actually know. Oh lord, I really was not dressed for company, I could not recall which particular profanities I may have uttered or how loudly, and there was now quite a lot of blood.
I was close to home. I explained that I would be fine once I could sit down and ‘have a little cry’, and limped off as quickly as I could.
Several hours later, the wound on my right arm is still gently bleeding, my left knee has a tiny scab but is wonderfully swollen and stiff, my right shoulder aches a little, my right thigh looks completely ok but there’s a horrendous pain when I touch it (I remember that was the part that hurt at the time so it probably took most of my weight).
I am pleased to say that my fourth limb has no more than a tiny scratch at the base of my palm. Yay for the left hand.
Counting my blessings though –
- my beautiful face remains untouched. Just red with ridiculousness, and
- I didn’t faint, despite it being a bit of a family habit to do so in such circumstances. Maybe I’ve outgrown that.
FFS – why can’t I be a bit more coordinated?