Did you fall over?
No, I was trying to break a bar of toffee in my back pocket.
With apologies to and paraphrasing the late, great Chic Murray, this post comes to you in the aftermath of yet ANOTHER prat fall by yours truly.
Before reading on, I should warn you this post contains images that might make you go “ouch!”
Now, I have always been a clumsy person. One of my most vivid memories is walking down the street holding my wee Auntie Pat’s hand. I was about eight. I was wearing shoes with a slippy sole. I thought it would be fun to do great big steps, stretching one leg as far forward as possible before quickly sliding my other foot forward.
I’m sure I don’t need to paint a picture as to what happened next. Front foot slides forward a lot further than intended and I end up doing the splits. I’m not a natural gymnast. That hurt.
As Pat was fond of saying for years afterwards, “that yin would fall over a fat straw squeezed.”
Not since being about eight years old have I had so many scraped knees, banged elbows and bruised backsides.
I have lost count of every time I have slipped and fallen over on a walk. Usually the only damage done is to pride, though at this stage there is little of that left.
But the more serious klutzy list of shame includes:
- Jamming my finger in the van door and splintering off a piece of bone that floats, to this day, inside the tip of my finger
- Getting my hat caught on the branch of a bush and being pulled backwards into a nest of nettles
- Slipping on mud and yet somehow falling on to the pavement, causing serious damage to my left knee
- Running full pelt into a closed patio door and breaking my nose
- Slipping on wet grass and tearing the cartilage in my right knee
The mug’s shots
I had to do a couple of walks with a crutch and felt – and probably looked – like a complete diddy.
My right knee is now encased in a brace. But it didn’t help earlier today when I caught my foot on a piece of wire and ended up flat on my face – again – with scraped palms and a screaming pain in my poor battered knee. The dogs were very solicitous and surrounded me offering sniffs and big licks to encourage me back to my feet. Thanks, guys.
History suggests I am always going to be a complete klutz. Doing things at 100mph, as my remarkably patient other half continually reminds me, doesn’t help. Now my sister tells me that apparently the menopause can increase a woman’s propensity to clumsiness.
At this rate I’ll be lucky to survive the year …