Life is what happens when you are making other plans. On this particular Friday my plans were modest. A few odd jobs to get out of the way and later a shared bottle of wine to accompany the remaining episodes of Unforgotten which were taped and waiting.
hen someone in the heavens pulled a lever. Probably a show-off, boy-angel intern trying to impress some cute little cherub.
Without warning or invitation I witnessed myself somersault through the air before landing awkwardly with a thunderous thud and in great pain.
This couldn’t have taken more than a fraction of a second, but for me it all happened in Sky Sport slow-mo.
More than enough time in any case to summon up a colourful range of expletives and wonder how many legs I was about to break, would I walk again and who would find me in this isolated place.
All such box-ticking conjecture was ended by a rush of searing pain after gravity had done its thing.
It ran up my left arm like an electric shock. I looked long enough to see that my hand was limp and dangling, the wrist grossly misshapen.
I thought I was going to pass out. Or throw up. Perhaps both simultaneously.
I had been clearing a deck of summer furniture, a routine autumnal chore delayed this year by the gentle turn of the seasons. It had just been raining and autumn leaves were beginning to form a carpet that would turn out to be as treacherous as it was pretty.
You’d only need to put a foot wrong in such circumstances. That foot, needless to mention, belonged to me.
As Lola, our little Yorkie, showed no inclination to do a Lassie and run off to the nearest ranch for help, I was left with no choice but to call an ambulance.
Everything has been looking up since, even if simple daily must-dos and chores will remain mammoth tasks until the cast comes off in late November.
This article, for instance, was typed by a right hand that has been a lazy, good-for-nothing my entire life. I can barely butter toast right now, let alone cut into a juicy steak.
But there are moments of levity. A get well card from my four-year-old grandson had to be censored by his mother as the dominating visual theme was severed limbs and fountains of realistic blood.
If this tale has a point (and the editor insists on the occasional one) it would be that every deck in the land should be put on trial before the Special Criminal Court, then ripped up and pulped.
Happy to go into witness protection and be the star witness.
A less hysterical observation might be that the response of our maligned health service – from the initial ambulance call-out, through to A&E in Wexford General and aftercare in Orthopaedics at Waterford’s University Hospital – has been top drawer.
It also reminded me one more time that your health is the only bank balance that truly counts. Make no bones about it.