Oopsie Daisy

As a kid, my summer holidays had a theme.  Personal Injury.  As an adult, I'd like to say I grew out of it.  However, at 0745 this morning, I discovered, in fact, I hadn't.

I'd not long been up - like, fifteen minutes, not even had a coffee not long been up.  I was sat sitting, checking my email when there's a knockity knock at the door.  Dressed in boxers and a dressing gown, I bumble down stairs to see who is trying to get in.

Five stairs from the bottom, the turn down to the right at ninety degrees.  Me being ever so smart, misjudges the corner, and stacks it straight down, flying face-first into the wall at the bottom and landing in a heap at the bottom, with my flabby self manly physique landing directly on top of my turned-at-a-funny-angle ankle.

I may have said "Ouch, that smarts!" or I might have said some bad words.  Either way, a voice on the other side of the front door calls out "Are you alright in there?"

It's the postman.  I pull myself up and try to walk - nearly fall again - so hop to the front door where a rather worried looking postman is standing with a little parcel and my mail.

If the shame and embarrassment wasn't enough, he asks if I'm OK, how bad am I hurt and so on and so forth.  I keep trying to put weight on the foot, but it's having none of it.  At least with a sprain, you can tell it's "just a sprain" but this was reeeeeally sore.

So, with his cape billowing in the wind, he rushes off to get his car, despite my protests - and instructs me to get dressed as he's going to run me up to Casualty.

I throw on some clothes, hop to the back door so Sally can get out, and resign myself to the fate of a day at the hospital.

With Mr Postie dropping me off and asking if I wanted help in, I say no, thank him some more, and hop into triage.  Now, as it turns out, if you are planning on going to casualty during the summer holidays, the time to do it is before 8am on a Monday.  Kids aren't faking illnesses to get off school, it's too early for the holiday-related accidents, too early for the lunchtime drinkers falling over...

Triage was just me and an old lady with a sore wrist - she fell over her cat - and it didn't take long to get in, seen, booked in, Xrayed and seen by a doc.  He checked for breaks, noted that there was quite a few older, healed breaks on there, and said he was pretty sure I wasn't sporting a snapped bone, and most likely had pulled or torn some ligaments.

So, elasticated bandagey stuff, a pair of crutches, and home I went in a cab.  Of course, I had to have the man in the cab wait outside while I hobbled in, grabbed the wallet, hobbled back out to him and paid him - apparently he didn't want to come to the front door to make my life any easier...

And so here I am - in and out of casualty in two and a half hours (which is fast), foot up, contemplating WHY there is so much shite on day time TV.  I'm OK - ankle is killing me, one of my hands is sore where I slapped into the wall, and my back is not a happy banana from the jolt-thud-thump-slump.  I've also got a sore bit on the back of my head, so guess I bumped that on the way down too.

I think my ego is also in a bandage once again!

So thank you to Mr Royal Mail this morning.  And thank you to the nurses for patching me up.  Again.

No thank you to the taxi driver tho.

PS: I called Kellie and told her.  She laughed and called me a twat.  I'm going to hers tomorrow, so no doubt will beat her up with my crutches.