No, not them.
I’m writing this as an advance apology; there may be less writing round here for a little while, there may be more (we’ll see), but there’s a possibility that anything I do write might not make much sense. Teapotkettlebarbeque!
On Room 101, host Frank Skinner once illustrated that he was getting old by relating how once he was backstage at a gig, talking to a much younger comedian, when he (Frank) complained of some back pain. The younger comedian asked him what had happened, and he realised that this back pain came with no anecdote, he was simply getting old and had inexplicable aches.
I haven’t quite reached that stage yet, but I do ache at the moment, and that’s because on Monday I had what a different Frank – Spencer (look him up, millenials) – used to describe as “a bit of an accident”.
Rushing to catch the bus which would get me to work at something approaching ‘on time’ (a rarity on a Monday, hence my I’m Not Too Keen On Mondays series), I fell down the stairs to my flat.
Worry not, these are internal stairs, not an external fire exit.
But they are very steep, with a corner step right outside the door to my flat. There’s no bannister to hold on to, past a certain point; when I was discharged from hospital in 2018, with my rehab/physio incomplete, the thing I was looking forward to least was trying to conquer these stairs.
Anyway, on Monday morning, they finally beat me, as I went arse over tit down them. I’m blaming me wearing a different pair of shoes which perhaps had less grip than my normal ones, but truth be told I have no idea what caused me to fall.
But fall I did, from top-to-bottom; I think my arse hit every step on the way down, and my head at least one or two too.
The next thing I remember is the woman from the flat below me – who I don’t exactly get on with – standing over me, asking if I was okay. I have no idea if she heard the thumps of fat arse on step and had come out to see what was going on, or if she had found me there when she left for work, but she kindly helped me to my feet and asked if I was okay.
“Yeh, yeh…I’m fine…bruise a bit prided though….”
“I think you need to go to A&E,” she told me, and as I wobbled a bit trying to get to my feet and out the door, I decided she probably had a point.
And so Monday was spent at the local hospital, waiting, waiting, having some X-Rays, then waiting some more. Turned out nothing was broken, though they suspected I had “mild concussion”. The advice was to take it easy, and if I was feeling dizziness in a day or so, I should come back to A&E and they would do further investigations.
And so Tuesday was spent at home, flat on my back, watching TV. Which was nice.
By Wednesday, the dizzy spells hadn’t stopped so I returned to A&E and after several hours of waiting, I had a CAT scan to my head, which found nothing of any interest (insert own joke here). I relayed the result to Kay (my boss) and told her I would be back in the office on Thursday.
And so Thursday came; I went to work, and the journey was, thankfully uneventful. I had a chat with Marion, one of the senior managers, about what had happened and felt kinda fine. Stiff and achey, but otherwise ok.
Back at my desk, some twenty minutes later, the lad next to me said something. I asked him to repeat it, which he did. I looked at him quizzically. Why is he telling me it’s good to see me now, I thught, when I’ve been back at my desk for this long, and we’ve already discussed the ridiculousness of something he had been sent to review? On request, he repeated what he had said again, and at the third time of asking I realised he was telling me that Marion was trying to attract my attention.
Kay got in to work and suggested we do my Back to Work Interview straight away. We found a vacant room off of the main office space, and before my arse had even hit the seat, Kay had said: “Should you be here?”
Midway through the conversation I realised I wasn’t exactly sitting normally: my left hand was on the table between us, about half way across it, propping me up.
And then I realised I was blethering on about having bruises on my arse like when John Noakes had that accident doing the Cresta Run on Blue Peter in the 1970s, and when he showed off one on his hip he realised that he was wearing his wife’s underwear, which he had ‘accidentally’ put on in the dark that morning. (I wish I could find a link to this, to prove it happened…)
It was like a knock to my head had caused all of the built-up popular (and not so popular) cultural references were finally released into the wild, gambolling across the vesta, or rather spilling out and into my words.
And now I realise that I have also referenced Room 101 and Frank Spencer in this post and that Kay’s decision to send me home and tell me not to come back until Monday was probably wise.
So perhaps I should just skip to the appropriate tunes, some of which in no way indicate a buried Messiah complex.