break a leg

Gravity, the edge of a stage, and a concrete floor are all – in their own special ways – wonderful things. Working together in combination, they’re also dangerous and painful. Which is as short and succinct an explanation as I can find for how I came to spend last Friday in A&E at the Royal Liverpool getting my lower left leg put in plaster – not something either myself or the leg had planned when we started the day.

What did I learn from hitting that concrete floor? Well, that it could have been worse: my leg took the impact, not my head or my back, and I’m thankful for that. That the NHS is a wonder, and that everyone of the people who dealt with me did so with patience and humour and kindness. That getting around on crutches is more difficult and exhausting than I’d ever imagined. That there are obstacles everywhere. That I sympathise with Daleks about stairs. That making a cup of coffee requires considerable planning and a good sense of balance. That a small kitchen is a godsend. That I can waste a whole day scrolling through social media. That sometimes your world can be one room, and the bed within it. That a ruptured Achilles tendon takes a long time to heal.

That I am, and have always been, lucky.