I am the world's clumsiest twat. Seriously. I'm not sure there's anyone to rival me. I can trip over thin air and create a disaster out of nothing (I'll replay an example for you at the end of this post). And today I surpassed myself.
I fell down two steps. Two really small steps and landed like a sack of potatoes with my handbag spilling out all over the place and all the pages in my file wafting in the wind. But I'm British and refused any offer of help from passers-by because I was s.o. e.m.b.a.r.r.a.s.s.e.d. I gingerly put some weight on my foot and felt OK so I limped to my meeting.
An hour later, as I attempted to walk back to my car, the pain had got almost too much to bear. I cried all the way home as I drove down the motorway. Gratefully, my husband was at home and, after calling me a clumsy twat (see, you thought I was exaggerating with my opening sentence, didn't you?), drove me to the hospital.
A short wait, a quick touch up from someone with a foot-fetish examination with a doctor and an X-ray diagnosed a hairline fracture in my fifth metatarsal and a major ligament damage. Recovery advice was not to put it in a cast because of the existing swelling but to keep it elevated for 48 hours and drink lots of wine then take it easy (definitely no driving).
Joy of joys!
A week before Christmas...
With stacks of work to complete before Friday...
And a full Christmas food shop to do...
And no black wool to finish my crocheted blanket.
But I do have a lovely new pair of crutches!
Oh yes, that clumsy moment. Here you go.
Kev and I had been out for a couple of hours and were walking between pubs. I had on what he calls my 'silly shoes' (quite high stilettos) and was tottering along beside him.
Where we live there are a few cobbled streets and I think you can guess what happened next... yes, my heel caught in one of the cobbles and I rather unceremoniously landed on my arse in the middle of a rain-soaked street.
Because we'd had a few sherbets, we both though this was quite amusing and my husband offered his hand to help me up. I must have caught him off-balance because rather than him pulling me up, he ended up on top of me in the middle of a rain-soaked street. Neither of us could move for laughing even though we tried to get up on several occasions. A good Samaritan saw our plight and offered to help my husband up and yes, it happened again - he ended up on the floor too. So, now we have three people on a rain-soaked floor, in the middle of town, in a mini-pile-on, all laughing as though their sides would hurt and only two of them know each other.
We eventually managed to get to our feet and retired to the nearest watering hole to recover. Funnily enough, we've never seen the bloke again!