SO, THERE I WAS…

Rolling Down The Hill With Arms Flailing

Do you remember those toy ducks that toddlers pull around with feet that go splat, splat, splat as they spin? That was me.

After being jettisoned from my wheelchair, I finally came to rest about a yard from the large and looming bumper of a delivery van, its driver unable to quite believe his eyes. A close shave you might think, and you’d be right.

Let me set the scene for you, dear reader, A mile or so from my house lies my favourite pub, the friendly and picturesque Frog & Nightgown with warm beer and pork scratchings, perfect on a cold day. The pub is down a steep hill, so I tend to bolt on my ‘fifth wheel’, get some exercise and pick up speed on the way down. It’s usually deserted, so terminal velocity can be reached quickly, making life quite exciting.

Braking is a bit hit and miss. Your hands get hot gripping the push-rim so there is only so much speed you can scrub off. Fortunately, so far, this rarely-used country lane has proved, well, rarely used. Until today. From around the corner roared the classic white van but, as it’s a single lane, it had no real place to pass me and my high-speed wheelchair. It applied brakes at a formidable rate, creating brown-trouser moments for all occupants, I suspect. I did the same, instantly locking up my wheels with my hands and thus forgoing any real sense of direction. The wheelchair, with me as just a mere passenger at this stage, swerved to the left, up the bank and into a hedge. Gravity then overcame momentum and re-asserted itself.

While the chair went up, I went down. Down the bank and down into the road.

My daughter, Tilly, was desperately attempting to corral me back onto the grassy bank against these inexorable gravitational forces, but with little success. Picture once again, the duck with ‘splatting’ feet.

There was an additional car behind me, which fortunately stopped well short and the whole chaotic disaster came to halt before any real damage was done. A quietness descended on the lane for a few moments before doors slammed and willing hands began to rally round and attend to the strange business of helping me back into my chair. With some gentle aural direction, I was righted and pointed back in the direction of the Frog & Nightgown.

It turns out, I didn’t escape scotfree. I had grazed arms and legs and a rather bruised ego. Still, as road traffic accidents go, it was relatively minor and I gratefully ended up in the warm F&N (rather than the cold A&E) clutching a pint of Harvey’s and a handful of dry roasted. This certainly helped alleviate the situation, but I ached for three days after.

And the moral of this story, dear reader?

Don’t be an idiot!