My fear of falling left me waddling down my sister’s very steep drive like an Edwardian naturalist on a safari for a new species of snail. The precipitous driveway was covered in a carpet of leaves and acorns and every time I descended I was like a toddler in a ball pond.
It certainly seemed to Amus Lola, the cat. She usually accompanied me as far as the gate, to check the world beyond her dominion, before turning on her perfect paws and padding back up the drive to check what birdlife she could terrorise for the morning.
I was house-sitting while my intrepid sister Breda, and her hubby Mick, canoed under Ponte Eiffel and sipped wine in the winery of the Palácio de Mateus in Portugal.
I was on a six-week sojourn back in leafy Leixlip, across the river from the village where I grew up, had my first summer job, wore pink elephant flares, put henna in my hair, got my first love bite and was grounded for a week.
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It was where my nana broke her hip and had to walk with an aid for her remaining years. She would abandon it at the bottom of the stairs and pull herself up each step, a trail of crushed water biscuits, secreted in the pocket of her crossover apron, evidence of the recent ascent.
Not that her travails were foremost in my mind as I approached the precipitous decline with deserved caution since the constant rain had ensured a slippery mulch under the latest layer of dry leaves.
I was thinking of the ex, way over there in the wild west on the island. He is still recovering from the 12 operations, insidious superbug, Covid viruses, he endured after fracturing his femur courtesy of a fall after a new hip operation.
Ironically, I was in the safety of my sister’s sitting room when disaster struck. It was coming to the end of my house-sitting sojourn and I was on a mission to leave their lovely home spick and span.
Blood seeping through my slippers, I hobbled in the other direction towards the kitchen and pulled a packet of peas from the freezer
I was immersed in smoothing over a throw on a leather couch when a bulky dumbbell I had taken to using for sporadic arm exercises, as I relaxed in the evenings, rolled off and thundered on to my left foot.
Oh my Jesus, Mary and Joseph and any saints that my late nana used to incant on her ever-present rosary beads, did I let out a scream that would put the heart crossways in a banshee.
Poor Lola might as well have been hit too. Her catnap ruined, she hightailed it off to the safety of the conservatory window and gave me filthy looks for the remainder of the day. No sympathy whatsoever.
Blood seeping through my slippers, I hobbled in the other direction towards the kitchen and pulled a packet of peas from the freezer.
I sat there on the floor in a state of shock rendered helpless from a small injury, which fortunately appeared to be to one toe in particular.
(I’ve since discovered courtesy of a maiden visit to a most helpful podiatrist that since I am from the Celtic race the injury was to my Viking Toe. That’s the one beside the big toe and, in the case of our race, the first metatarsal is short in relation to the second metatarsal. All news to me, I might add.)
‘It was only a dumbbell,’ I opined stoically, as I explained my injury, bought antiseptic cream and a more suitable stash of plasters
But back to the kitchen floor. When I couldn’t stem the blood, I sat on the side of the bath and ran cold water on to my stricken foot until finally, the flow stopped.
An hour or so later, towing one badly plastered foot, I limped down the driveway and across the road into the village to the chemist.
“It was only a dumbbell,” I opined stoically, as I explained my injury, bought antiseptic cream and a more suitable stash of plasters.
The little injury did take its toll though. It is a month later now and I only went on my first proper pain-free walk this week. It was along the town’s greenway back here in Westport. I’m very happy to confirm that my Viking metatarsal seemed very cosy in its new toe sock.