I was bustling around the kitchen making fish and chips that November night. While the chips were in the fryer I decided to slip out and collect my washing from the clothes line. My slippers slipped on some wet leaves lying on the back doorstep. I shot up in the air and came down with a thud, my ankle cracking against the rise of the step. Helplessly, I called out "George" which happened to be the name of both husband and son in my household. Thinking I was calling him for dinner my husband quickly came through and found me sitting on the ground beside the back door. He managed to lift me onto my uninjured foot and with his support I hopped through to an easy chair where I laid my poor limb on a foot stool. My broken bones were jutting out like the fork of a bike from either side of my ankle. George senior decided he would take his dinner before driving me to the hospital. 'It may not be broken', says he. George Junior retorted, 'You've got to be kidding.' My two brave Georges shouldered me out to the car where I was able to place my broken leg along the back seat.
Lots of forms to be filled up before my surgery the next day where my broken bones had to be joined together with a metal plate at one side and a screw at the other. Question asked: Did you take a dizzy turn? Answer: No, I slipped trying to retrieve my laundry. I had never felt so old before. I was a very young 69. This operation is not always successful they informed me, so sign along the dotted line. I had suffered phlebitis in my other leg but now I hadn't a leg to stand on.
Whoever mended my leg, joiner or surgeon, I salute them as seventeen years on I haven't had the slightest bother. I still love taking long walks in my Denny Hills on the edge of the Campsie Fells or along the banks of the River Carron. Only last week my daughter Anne read out an article in our local newspaper where they were appealing to people who had broken their ankle to tell their story about their injury. The survey was to find out which was better: the "metal screw" or just the old fashioned "stookie" style. Here was my moment to shine. I could celebrate by letting the media know about the miracle mending. Alas! There was an age limit. Age up to 60, the article read. My spirits deflated. I am 86 and well past my sell by date.
However I find solace in my gardening where the pansies have their faces upturned towards the sun and the peonies celebrate by the bursting out of their huge scarlet blooms. The azalea I split into three last year because it was pot bound has an array of flowers on each plant. I remember the kind Mr and Mrs Loney who gave me a cutting when my hydrangea waved her sky-blue "Ladies' Bonnets" in the breeze.
We can also celebrate lockdown easing. It's grand to have a chat with our neighbours and feel a wee bit more free.