Yesterday, I took a tumble.

BoyFace and I were on our way to meet some friends for a couple of drinks and some nibbles in Battersea Park. So far, so idyllic. I’d managed to get down what are truly horrific stairs at the Overground station (seriously, TfL. There’s being inaccessible and there’s just taking the Michael), and was feeling jolly proud of myself for it. I was even trying to navigate to the park using my phone (yes, BoyFace was a Tank Commander. Yes, he is more than capable of navigating without a phone. BUT I WANTED TO DO IT.). I had Gin and bread (two of the most important food groups) waiting for me at the end of my travels. Life was looking pretty good, and OH HELLO PAVEMENT.

I don’t know how I fell. The paving slabs were maybe a tad wonky, but no more than the rest of London (yes Boris, you are getting the brunt of today’s blog. Deal with it). The legs had actually been behaving very well over the past few days, while we moved rooms and redesigned our entire house. I had Bubbles the stick with me, and the most supportive shoes I own on (beautiful silver brogues, from Clarks, if you’re interested). This was NOT a day for falling. This was a day for skipping (wonkily) through parks and DRINKING GIN.

But twas not to be. I was on the pavement, in the middle of Battersea, surrounded by runners looking concerned but British enough not to get involved, on all fours, trying very hard not to cry, my smashed up phone in my hand. As I looked down at its sweet little screen, the extension of my arm that didn’t make up for my legs, it flashed a few interesting designs at me as a secret farewell code, went stripey, and died. (BoyFace subsequently tried calling it. It’s just the screen. But still, so long for now, dear friend).

It’s not like I haven’t fallen before. I was forever going over on my ankles as a kid (to such an extent that I was sent to my mother’s Neurologist to see if it was my brain. I kind of forgive her for not knowing it was actually my tendons. Neurologists rarely consider those, brains are complicated enough). I’ve got really good at falling over the last few years. I’m good with the sarky comments afterwards (“I prefer the view from down here”), but it always bruises the ego, especially in busy places like early evening Battersea.

I haven’t especially hurt myself. My wrists and elbows are feeling a bit sorry for themselves, and the knee is more cross than normal (today is a sofa and painkillers day). But it’s hard to explain how it affects me every time.

As ever, when I start to get upset, I automatically call my parents. So I borrowed my Boy’s phone and did just that. Having held it together so well, the second I heard my Dad’s voice at the other end, I burst out into huge, angry, humiliated sobs. I didn’t care what the runners passing me thought. I just needed to bawl. So bawl I did, as my father tried to understand;

“So your phone is gone? You fell? Were you mugged? Are you ok?”

I managed to gulp in breath enough to explain that I had simply fallen, I still had my phone, I was just sore and embarrassed. In the background, my mother yelled “IS SHE SOBER?!”.

They know me too well. But on this occasion, I really hadn’t touched a drop. Maybe that’s a study waiting to happen. I reckon I’d be more steady after a few.

I’m already feeling better about my fall. It’s just something that happens, and a broken phone is not something worth getting too stressed about (even for me). But that feeling of humiliation, and disappointment in my own body? That will stay for a while yet.