Friday, 30 December 2011

Getting old.

My R Whites secret lemonade drinking days are over.

Last night at the usual hour of midnight, I sneaked down stairs for my nocturnal fix of citrusy sugary pop. Naturally the light was off for fear of being discovered.

All was still. Somewhere a wolf howled. A distinct thud of the neighbour's size nine hitting fur. Somewhere a wolf whimpered.

Approaching the bottom of the stairs, I made the fatal error of miscounting. My brain told my foot I was at ground level. My foot trusted my brain. My brain was wrong.

In super-slow motion, my foot groped at thin air. My brain quickly computed the optimum route to safety. My brain realised that it was too late to pop out and buy a bouncy castle to break my fall; even if the shops were open, there'd barely be time to read the instructions, let alone inflate the damn thing. My little toe made contact with carpet. My foot kindly decided to share the fun with my knee who instantly offered a share of the action to my elbow. Collectively they embraced the carpet and my lungs omitted a triumphant 'oof'.

9-7-9-10 would have been the scores had the judges been able to see but the lack of light meant they were unable to pass judgment on my beautiful lines as I cut silently through the air.

Lying still to enjoy the silent applause and adoration, I tested the various affected bones and - whilst not having completed my medical studies and therefore not being in a position to officially pronounce my condition - I was fairly sure that no bone was broken during the making of this fall.

Deftly and adroitly manoeuvring round the tree and its presents (if it doesn't open them soon then I am going to step in) I bravely fought back the tears and continued my journey to the fridge for my R Whites fix only to be left with a bitter sweet taste in my mouth: the R Whites was all gone.

Manfully limping back up the stairs, machismically ignoring the Death Steps and their evil intentions; I promised to exact revenge on whomever it was who imbibed the bottle in its entirety. Everyone is acting like butter wouldn't melt but I will identify the perp and wreak my havoc.
On a side note; that's the second time I have fallen without the assistance of inebriation in 2011. See the entry entitled 'Getting Old 2: then there'll be tears' for the report on the game and the post-match analysis from our intrepid reporter.

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