How is it that, in the first three months of 2017, I have fallen over more times than I have done in the past five years?
I know, I can’t explain it either. Is the ground in Portsmouth more slippy? Am I becoming so old and frail that I just can’t keep up with my body? Are all my years of ninja training beginning to wear off as I succumb to a diet of pizza and gin?
Okay, so gin may have played a factor in one or two of my excursions with gravity, but the slippiness of the floor and the lack of traction found with pebbles cannot be ignored in those scenarios.
But look at me, I’m just making excuses.
The same way that I blamed my fall last night on my shoelaces, and the incoming bus, or my friend Freddie (who promptly laughed at me, and wasn’t the first person to ask if I was alright on an empty street). But to be fair, I laughed at me too. It was pathetic. I rushed to avoid a bus as it slowed and then tripped on my shoelace and then– as if it wasn’t bad enough that I fell– I was so worried about still being in the road that, after a pause for thought, I did a little roll onto the pavement.
There I was, bodycon dress and totally sober, falling over in the street. Definitely one of my finer moments.
But perhaps it was also necessary– everyone needs to remember what a scraped knee feels like. It’s just one of those things that make you human. If you don’t leave a small pile of skin cells on the road outside McDonalds, were you even there at all?
When I was kid, perhaps four or five– old enough to know better, really– I fell over.
Revolutionary, I know.
It was in my back garden, by the swing that my Grandad built, and I was heading towards the conservatory doors before suddenly I was heading towards the ground. Now my garden path (which is still there in case any of my die-hard fans want to recreate this moment) is made of stones– chips of stones embedded in concrete. It’s got a few cracks and a few tiny holes that, in the summer, ants crawl out of them.It’s not the sort of surface that you want to fall over on.
Not that I was a particularly delicate kid– a lot of my childhood was spent running, barefoot, up pebble beaches for balloons that had washed up on the shore. I built dens out old patio tiles and junk we found in skips. My dad let me and my sister play endlessly with hammers and nails and blowtorches. But no little girl, no small child, has the skin of The Thing.
So I scraped my knees, and cut my arm and there was blood. Quite a bit of blood. And I know it was bad because my mum rushed over and she tenderly held up my wounds and she made a face. It was a face that said “Oh God my child has hurt itself, Oh God my child is crying” and then it said, “That’s okay, I have a cream for that.”
My mum has a cream for everything.
I don’t remember any other instances of falling over aside from that. It must have happened, obviously, but I’ve chosen to forget them. This blog post, I think, is a bit like falling over. It just sort of started to happen, and I assumed I’d figure it out in the end…. but I’ve hit the floor now, and I’m not quite sure what to do next.
Get up, maybe?
But that feels like such a large amount of effort. I could possibly try and force an inspirational message into this, and relate actually falling on your arse to having a bad day, but that just feels cheesy in all the wrong ways.
Sometimes you just fall over.
(PS: Don’t worry mum , I’ve put cream on it)