In her latest instalment of ‘The life of a Yorkshire widow’, Jan Dunbar’s protagonist shares some breaking news…
You might have noticed I’ve been missing for a while. Well I’m afraid that was unavoidable. I’ve been incapacitated due to a small household accident involving a light bulb and a step ladder. I didn’t fall off the ladder, I just didn’t know my cat was standing on the step below me and I trod on him. I’ve never heard that sort of a noise come out of a cat before; you’d think he’d been caught in a mangle. The result was I went @rse over teakettle and broke my ankle.
I knew as soon as it happened that it would require more than running it under a cold tap or a bit of Savlon. As I was on the landing I managed, with the help of several mild expletives and one or two words I didn’t know I knew, to get to the bedroom where I have a telephone extension. I considered calling 999 but (a) it wasn’t really an emergency and (b) my sister Margaret was a theatre sister in the NHS for many years and still has the voice of a sergeant major. I knew she would be able to negotiate the waiting room with some speed. The result was an xray, a prescription for painkillers and something called a walker boot. This contraption has a hard exterior, a padded interior and straps snugly around the ankle for support. It’s quicker, cleaner and much more effective than the old-style plaster of Paris and of course much easier to remove once the damage has healed.
After a detour to the supermarket for essential supplies, Margaret dropped me off at home with the sound advice to practise getting around on crutches as she didn’t want to see the inside of an A&E department again any time soon. Margaret doesn’t do sympathy. I found the crutches very clumsy but that wasn’t the worst of it. I managed to make a simple meal and eventually made my way upstairs at bedtime, backwards and on my bottom. Round one to me, I thought but trying to get ready for bed was another matter entirely. I managed to remove my outer clothes but I couldn’t get the leg of my …er… underwear over the boot and had to resort to scissors. It was only the following morning I realised there was no way I could get clean underwear on. So I did what anyone in my position would do and I went commando. The result though not unpleasant was a little draughty.
Answering the door also proved a bit tricky as there are several objects to negotiate between the lounge and the hall and occasionally whoever was knocking had left before I got there which was frustrating. However there was a persistent knock at teatime yesterday and eventually I opened the door to find a small boy standing there looking impatient. “I knew you were in,” he said, “I could see t’elly.” I asked him what he wanted and he said his name was Perry Mason at which I raised an eyebrow. “No Missus, it really is” he told me. “Me grannie was a fan years ago. Me mam said it’s a good job I’m not in a wheelchair or I’d ‘ave been called Ironside. Anyway, I’m doin’ a sponsored swim to raise funds for musical instruments for me school so I’ve come t’ask if you’ll sponsor me. It’s three lengths of the pool and I ‘ave to do it on Saturday coming.”
The boy had a clipboard with some slightly grubby sponsor sheets and a chewed pen and when I looked at the list of sponsors, there were several names I recognised, most of which written in adult handwriting.
“I’ll sponsor you for a pound a length,” I said, “so three pounds in total.”
“If you look Missus,” he told me, “a lot of people have done five pounds and it’s for a good cause.”
“Look, young man,” I said, “I can’t afford five pounds. I have to be careful with money as I lost my husband last year.”
“Lost ‘im?” he asked, “well where did you last see ‘im?”
“In a coffin” I replied smartly, and he laughed out loud.
“Me grannie’d love you” he said with a wide grin.
I ended up sponsoring him for ten pounds. Cheeky he might have been, but he made me laugh.