Sunday, 8 January 2017


How odd the way the stars align and spark events without warning. Yet if that sounds more than a little airy-fairy, it probably is. The way my New Year commenced was little to do with stars or fate; more down to geriatric stupidity. I discarded the 2016 Hogmanay reality of my age - 73 - and swapped it for 23. I drank copious amounts of ale, and at midnight consumed half a bottle of champagne.

At around 1.30 am I tried to stagger upstairs to bed; five steps up I slipped, fell backwards, did a somersault, my head hitting the hallway skirting board, landing flat on my back . It took a few desperate hours for the ambulance to arrive, but when it did the combined anaesthetic of 7 bottles of beer and the champagne  had worn off. The only cure for the agony of my useless broken left arm was morphine. The saintly NHS Paramedics  delivered the painkiller, stopped me from shaking like a leaf, cleaned my bloody head wound and finally transported me to Kings Mill Hospital, where I was X-rayed and fitted with a wrist-to-shoulder cast.

Now I’m feeling very sorry for myself and very worried; there is no neurovascular connection between elbow and wrist. My left arm is useless; only the fingers of the hand work, but I’m typing this one-handed with my right index finger. What now? Will I eventually be able to drive again?  If not then alcohol will have deprived me of the freedom of independent travel. Its early days as yet; suffice it to say this has been one festive season I shall not forget in a hurry … and I can’t play guitar any more. Watching TV is no substitute for creativity. I’ll simply have to become the fastest one-finger typist in history.

I did this to myself, therefore the words of Marcus Aurelius  now apply: The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.

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