This morning, around 9:07 if you were at Lisle and Wardour Street, you would have seen a woman take a serious face first tumble on the sidewalk. (Hint. The klutz was me.)

I’m no stranger to tripping through life.

Late April 2000 I was on a two-week holiday with my then boyfriend and his parents in New York City. We were staying at his Uncle’s house in Pelham Bay, a tony neighborhood in the Bronx.

Little ole me went to Yankee Stadium, The Met, The World Trade Center. I had the best cup of coffee on the planet that I ordered from a guy in a truck on the street. I ate Sabrett dirty water hot dogs and chocolate egg creams.

I fell in love with New York City and I had barely seen anything.

One day toward the end of the first week we met up with a Uni friend of mine that had just moved to Queens. The plan was to go to MOMA. Only problem was when we got there, the curators were striking. Being good liberals that we are we couldn’t cross a picket line. We broke out the travel book and decided to go to Greenwich Village. I was wearing these boots with a chunky heal that were all the rage at the time. They had the benefit of being stylish and comfortable.

Walking down the sidewalk, I managed to catch a patch of uneven sidewalk, lost my balance and fell.

I heard my ankle snap even before I hit the ground.

I guess it isn’t a trip to NYC without a visit to St. Vincent’s.

The next few months were not a lot of fun, although the vicodin did make my job much more enjoyable.

Last night Stuart and I met up with Jen, Richard and Matt for a drink and tapas. Jen’s knee is giving her some problems and we talked about how London would not be a fun place to get around in if you weren’t mobile. People run over folks on crutches and maybe two stations on the underground have wheelchair access.

I think I was tempting the gods.

This morning walking to work I looked right then left before I crossed the street and I managed to catch a bit of sidewalk and I fell, flailing, grasping to hold on to air. I wasn’t even wearing ridiculous shoes—they were very sensible Mary Jane wedges.

As I fell, I thought, “No, this can’t be happening.”

Well. That’s a lie. I think it was more like, “No motherfucker, No!”
There wasn’t a snap this time, but there was a pop. And it was my right ankle rather than my left.

I lay there stunned. I struggled to stand up. A few iPoder Londoners stepped over me. (slight exaggeration.) One gentleman, (Polish, I think) asked me if I was ok. I smiled through tears, “Yes, yes. Absolutely. Thank you.”

I shuffled off and the ankle seemed ok. A touch stiff, but I was fine. I felt myself limping around the office slightly but I thought I dodged a bullet.

At lunch, things took a bad turn. I kept whining, “It’s really starting to hurt.” When it was time to go, my slight limp and become a full on hobble.

By the end of the day, it took everything in me to just to not put head down on my desk and sob.

I called a cab and went home.

It was mortifying limping to the lift. (Am I becoming English?)

Stuart picked me up some paracetamol with codeine and a pizza which made life a lot more better.

So good news. I didn’t break my ankle. Bad news. I have a rather nasty sprain that is having me hobble around the house like an old lady. . .

I think I will need to quit my Lindy Hop classes.

Damn my klutzy ass.

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