My back is sore, my knees feel weak and I can hardly lift my legs. As I try to take a few tentative steps I am reminded of a newborn gazelle. I stagger from side-to-side, momentarily find my feet then just as quickly lose my balance. I have to admit; I am in agony.
The blame for my discomfort lies firmly in the hands (or should that be feet) of a pair of snuggly slipper boots. They were warm, they made my feet feel like they were being hugged by the softest of clouds, they were the perfect shade of cream and they were, well to be honest they were just a tad too big.
As I slipped them onto my feet in the store I knew that they were not a perfect fit, yet the size down was way too small. And they were just so soft, so warm, so darn perfect.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” whispered my heart. “Think how comfy I’ll be,” pleaded my feet. “Be sensible woman,” demanded my brain. Well, my heart and feet overruled my frequently ignored head, and into my basket they popped.
It was two weeks before Christmas that disaster struck. I threw back the duvet, stretched, yawned and slipped on my slipper boots of perfection. As I took my first step on the stairway that leads to tea, brekkie and hubby, my foot twisted inside my boot and I did what can only be described as a ‘cartoon comedy fall’. You know the one I mean – the cartoon cat slips on a banana peel, his whole body raises in the air and then comes crashing back down to earth. Just to add insult to injury (no pun intended) I then did a very impressive slide down each step of the stairs. So impressive in fact, that I completely tore out the backside of my PJ’s.
And then, well then I screamed like a two year old. However, I have my doubts that I have ever screamed in such an ear splitting way, even as a two year old. Andrew is still recovering from the shock.
What happened next was much pleading from Andrew to, “Get yourself to hospital, you deranged woman!” And equal if not more insistence that it was just a flesh wound (yes, my posterior looked as if it had picked a fight with a cheese grater and lost) and I would be fine. As you may gather, I don’t ‘do’ ill.
Christmas came and went, Winter melted into Spring, and Spring blossomed into Summer (also know as three days of nice weather). As for my derrière? After the initial few weeks of crippling pain, it kind of settled down. Hard chairs caused me problems, and long journeys became a nightmare, but it was doable. Then came a five hour journey at the end of which I couldn’t get out of the car – it actually crossed my mind that cutting gear and firefighters may become involved. So I bit the bullet and I decided to seek medical advice.
And what did this trip to the seventh circle of Hell (aka accident and emergency) reveal? I have broken my arse! Or in more medical terminology, I have fractured my coccyx. Apparently nothing can be done about it, so long journeys and hard chairs have become my enemies. Moral of the story? When it comes so slipper boots, size matters!
But I must admit, when you have this waiting for you all thoughts of arse ache float away:
Yep, I’m back in Ramsgate and I’m ready to party. Well, maybe not immediately, sitting on a cushion for a few hours being drip fed tea (or fizz if I’m lucky) is probably more on the agenda. But tomorrow, hey lookout cos The Barefaced Chic is back in town!