Suddenly, I found myself sailing through the air like something shot from a catapult, only much bigger (fatapult?). I landed inelegantly on my hands and knees in an inch of snow and ice, coming to a halt only because I haven't exfoliated my kneecaps for a while so there was a good friction thing going on as I slid.
Moral of the story: if you're going to say things like 'Maybe we should cross the road because it'll be less icy over there', say it rapidly and get it over with, just in case you fall over while you're saying it. (This incident was my punishment, I know, for having written that last post about dying while you're singing on stage.)
Of course, it was a nice quiet road, so there was no one to see. Phew. Lucky or what?
Was it hell a nice quiet road. There was a queue of at least six cars waiting at the junction. And they had plenty of time to see the whole damn show from start to finish. So, even if they were delayed getting home for Friday night telly entertainment, at least they'd already seen a good episode of 'Let's All Point and Laugh' or whatever those shows are called in which people are humiliated for the joy of others.
(Readers, at this point I googled 'Ladies with Big Bottoms' to see if there was a suitable illustration to help you imagine what all the drivers were having to look at when I fell over. But it only took me a few seconds to realise that googling 'Ladies with Big Bottoms' is something one only does for a certain reason, and that reason is not to put innocent pictures on one's blog post about falling over in the snow.)
The irony of it all is (and there IS always irony) that it wasn't the ice at all that sent me arse over tip. It was a bit of loose paving which I couldn't see under the snow. No wonder I flew so far. I suppose I could sue the local council, but when I got home, the husband made me a nice big glass of port with hot Ribena (try it, try it, it's nectar) and my litigious instincts very soon petered out. Anyway, I had visions of having to tell this story in front of a courtroom, WITHOUT the opportunity to make jokes about fatapults and bottom pictures, and that sounded like no fun at all.
Anyway, I know you're all VERY concerned, and you may even now be writing me loving messages (such as 'If you die, can I have your collection of Victorian literature?' or 'When I come and visit you in hospital, can I share your chocolates?).
Well, I'd just like you to know that I'm absolutely fine and my injuries only needed a teeny bit of first aid. Here's a picture, just to reassure you.
|Sometimes, Fran took the word 'exaggeration' to greater lengths than were strictly necessary.|