Exploring Denial


The scene of the crime.

This is where Siri comes into its own – hey Ho blog dictated by dearly without any predictive text messing things up.  I mean my whole blog dictated rather than typed!

After a whole week of people asking me ‘what have you done to yourself?’ I thought the rest of the world would like to know. Are you out there my blogging fans? I do like to reach my international community …

Last Saturday afternoon I decided to take my mother for a coffee and then follow up with eight cemetery it stroll around the field (that is meant to say ‘A solid terry strong’ ; I mean ‘a solitary stroll’).

The picture in this blog shows where I went with one vital misconception – it was January, not June, and the field was a quagmire. I was walking briskly across a corner, as only women of a certain age do when they realise they need a pee. I know, I know, too much information already!  Suddenly my right foot went into a loop of shrub root which the health and safety squad missed on their last check of Boveney. Needless to say I hit the ground fast and hard, putting out to my dominant hand (I love that phrase, it makes me think of my poor left hand constantly being bossed around) to break my fall. Immediately I knew it was more than my fall that had been broken. I staggered to my feet and began to inspect the damage, to a constant mantra of ‘shit shit shit’.

  • Collarbone and elbow hurt
  • Right hand and wrist really hurt
  • Right hand and wrist in a strange position
  • Covered in mud from head to toe
  • But most importantly…
  • … when the chips are down, The black bear bears app (Siri really does have a problem with phrases like ‘The bladder bears up)

What to do? There is no one in sight who has witnessed my predicament and dear Mum is waiting patiently in the car for my return. So I regained my composure, held my right arm in my left, and attempted being nonchalant as I approached the vehicle. Mothers the world over are good to have at moments like this, no matter what your age, but I am convinced the textbook says they should not burst out laughing! Playing down my injury, and biting my tongue about the lack of sympathy, I then proceeded to act out that cliched phrase  – ‘go into denial’. 

Guess what, I drove home! With what subsequently turned out to be broken wrist! Idiot! However, I do like to share some top tips whenever I can, just in case my scores of readers ever face a similar challenge:

  • Your left hand is dominant when driving
  • Your right hand, though, is quite useful
  • You need it to hold the steering wheel
  • Second gear can be stayed in for many miles
  • People behind you do not like second gear
  • If you are lucky no one will be approaching the Sainsbury’s roundabout from the right
  • Miracles do happen – no one was
  • Husbands take for ever to answer the front door
  • Husbands do not like getting mud on their hands

For the rest of the evening I stayed in denial, drinking cups of tea and putting bags of frozen peas on my wrist – Sainsbury’s since you ask. What do you mean, you didn’t ask? I then managed a surprisingly good night’s sleep wearing an old wrist support that lurks in my bedside drawer alongside myriad tat that you just know will come in useful one day. Happily I lived to see another dawn and at this point my good friend Denial buggered off. 
‘Take me to A and E,’ I whimpered, ‘before the football casualties rock up.’ 

At this point our incredible National Health Service came galloping to the rescue like a night on a white charger (in this case a rather gorgeous Bone Doctor in a white jacket). After spending 15 minutes removing two rings (my maternal gran’s engagement one and another given to me by my first love – don’t tell Tim) the x-ray confirmed a Colles fracture and an evil looking syringe was injected into two positions. 

I was then urged to drag on the laughing gas whilst my other half became increasingly annoying by trying to make me laugh (that gas does not do what it says on the tin). Alarmingly I became aware of what seemed like crowds of people on my right holding demented conversations with one another about a miscreant schoolchild – good girl Debbie, well done Debbie, this won’t take long Debbie.

Aagh! They pulled my arm straight, and then began plastering, all the while their praise echoing in and out of my consciousness. What a good girl I am!

To be continued. Sorry.

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