Help! I’ve just fallen down the stairs! I’m OK actually – don’t call 911 (or 999 if you’re in England – did you know it was different over here? I didn’t until about three months after I moved here. Thank goodness I wasn’t caught in some sort of incendiary situation during that time!) – but I really have just fallen down the stairs. We have a fairly steep, narrow, old-cottage stairwell, and my foot slipped as I was going downstairs just now (mostly sober at four o’clock in the afternoon, well done me) and I cracked my head on the wall and hit my lower back on the bottom stair. SiC, after ascertaining that I was all right and doing his Health and Safety Guy routine for thirty seconds (“Sit still. Let me see your eyes.” “I’m not fucking concussed, you dick, I’m just bruised.”), proceeded to mock me mercilessly and do a retard impression as I hobbled around the kitchen, and five minutes later when I asked him not to lean on me because it hurt, said, “God, are you still going on about that?”
Being married is great.
As is being a complete spastic! My lower right back is seizing up as we speak. Back in my slam-dancing days, this sort of injury was a regular occurrence (shut up, grandma!), but now that I’ve reached the ripe old age of Nearly Thirty (as SiC regularly reminds me, BECAUSE HE IS AWESOME), I should be able to milk this for at least half a day in bed and some medicinal marijuana. Oh, me achin’ back!