How Did I Get Here... Again?

Eventually I’ll find it funny, but right now it’s mostly just infuriating, and a tad improbable.  13 months and 8 days after I fell down a mountain, I slipped while walking on a flat footpath and ended up back in hospital with a broken leg.  Again.

But I’ll get to that.

The story starts when I moved overseas four and a half months ago.  High on the international wave of optimism wrought by Trump, Brexit and a flawless Oscars ceremony, I distilled everything I owned into one gigantic suitcase (and a few discrete boxes in Mother Painefull’s cellar, which she may have forgotten about so I’ll shut up), boarded a flight, and landed in the sunny United Kingdom.

It was a tale as old as time – girl gets itchy feet to live in London a decade later than she’s meant to, decides to move in with three Italians almost exclusively on the proviso that they make pizza once a week, then promptly gets a job in Leeds.  Classic.

Actual Pizza served up by Actual Italian Housemates

Despite rehabbing my Wolverine leg to the satisfaction of various medical professionals before I left Australia, there was still work to be done.  In the knowledge I was bridesmaiding for one of my oldest, closest friends at a ceremony near Sheffield in July, I became determined not to limp down the aisle.  With this as a useful and worthy goal I began walking everywhere to build up strength.

The simple version of how that went is to say the limp was indeed eradicated in time for the wedding.  The slightly more involved version includes the detail that it was when I began my first graceful steps down the aisle in a strapless, floor length, blush pink gown* that I discovered Mother Painefull was the celebrant.

There’s a lesson here - when your mother claims she’s merely “helping out” at a wedding ceremony rehearsal by “standing in” for the inexplicably absent celebrant, ask follow-up questions.

Someone somewhere must be in possession of a video of me mouthing the words “What the fuck are you doing there?” to my mother while gliding towards her at a dignified pace.  She was wearing an ethereal, bright purple kaftan with sequined neckline, shoulder length matching earrings and Dame Edna inspired glasses** – that’s Mother Paineful for ‘demure’.

It goes without saying that no one remotely compared to the bride.

The rest of the night was a blur of river dance duels, drunken relatives being prised through doorways and 5 different people trying to fix my hair.  It was a hilarious, joyous celebration, and the photographs attest to that, as well as providing evidence of my fundamental, repeated misunderstanding of what you’re meant to do when asked to fake laugh for a ‘candid’ photo.

This brings us to me in the present day, rocking a limp-free walk in Leeds.  Stairs were still a challenge, but the three flights up to my new bedroom were helping me to overcome that.

Life was good, on track, settling into a rhythm – like a North Korean scientist, it felt like all my hard work was finally paying off.  I was trundling to my job while listening to The Quiet American on audio book (drawn in by the possibility that such a thing might exist).

From afar it probably looked like a cartoon character stepping on a well-placed banana peel – left leg shooting out and up in a comical skid, attached body hurtling back before thudding down with a crunch onto the awkwardly placed right leg underneath it.

Fortunately the completed metal puzzle that is my tibia remained intact, and I merely sustained very minor breaks to my ankle and thigh.  Like most sequels ever it was lame and unnecessary, a forced follow-up and a pale imitation.  I can already see the uninspiring poster tagline…

Last time I broke this leg being able to blame a skiing accident at least left me with a bit of credibility.  “Fell while walking completely sober in flat shoes” is not what one would call sexy, dangerous or remotely mysterious.

The word you’re reaching for is ‘embarrassing’.  Like that time you kept giving a full face hyena cackle for a posed, ‘candid’ fake-laughter photo.

Them, as the inevitable pun concludes, are the breaks. 

Painefull Out

P.S.  Every sign and person that ever ordered you to walk, not run, for your own safety was a liar.

* = I think it was blush pink… and that blush pink is a thing?  Whenever I was asked for details of what I’d be wearing I was informed that ‘a dress’ was not descriptive enough, so that’s me trying to give it a little flavour.

** = On the other hand I know this description is entirely accurate – the visual is far more firmly placed in my mind.