Bandage Bondage

There are two things I can't for the life of me master - one is directions, and one is getting down the stairs safely.

This weekend, I was going to put the garbage out when boom - I slipped down a flight of stairs without preamble. Did rather good for myself, only got a sprained ankle and a bruised hand. Cursing profusely as I slowly picked first myself and then the pieces of trash off me one by one, I hobbled to the dump to throw away the rubbish.

My slow climb back up the stairs was accompanied alternatively by unprintable expletives, painful grunts and the occassional shaking-of-the-fist-at-all-and-sundry. That I should have paid more attention to where I was planting my flat feet in the first place than getting agitated later had in no way dampened my murderous mutterings. Besides, I didn't let rational thoughts spoil my wonderful ill-humour. I cleaned up at home and proceeded to rub ointment and bandage my foot, vowing to be more careful the next time I ventured out.

A week later, as I was going out to get groceries, I promptly fell off the same staircase and added another couple of sprains to my collection.

Now, I am sitting at home cooling my heels with both legs swathed in bandages and both hands purple with bruises.