I'm quite a slow person.
I don't mean to be self-deprecating or derogatory in any way (how odd that I'm apologising to myself in case I'm offended by own blog post), it's just that I'm not the quickest firecracker in the box.
Those who know how tempestuous I really am, will be surprised by my description, but I'm not.
My reflexes are shockingly bad.
They're what caused me to not realise that running down that stony bank down the docks with three inch heels on, was not a good idea. They're what saw me end up with torn ligaments in my right ankle, unable to walk for weeks. My reflexes being my reflexes are what caused me to not think, "Put down that vegetable knife, you're about to slice your finger open chopping that parsnip!" or "You are about to kneel on a pair of open scissors where the blades are pointing towards your leg, STOP!"
And so on Easter Saturday when we were painting the kitchen finally after two years of various paint samples adorning the walls, my dependable reflexes did it again. I spotted the innocent looking Ikea step in the middle of the kitchen and thought, "That's a trip hazard, I should move it." Of course, my version of moving it is kicking it to the side.
Five hours later I decided that school work on a Saturday night was not a tempting option, so walked into the kitchen to clean the cupboard fronts down. I stepped onto the stepladder, washed it, stepped down to get the kitchen towel without looking and stumbled over the sodding white step in the middle of the floor.
The next bit happened at various speeds; first I stuck my left hand out to break my fall, then everything slowed down while I felt it break, slower still while I crashed down onto my bottom and banged my head on the bloody step which had slid behind me. Then it all sped up again while I screamed, my husband rang for an ambulance, and I whimpered for my mum.
Someone put time onto a 33RPM instead of a 45RPM over the next eight hours while I was diagnosed with both a fractured ulna and a particularly nasty fractured radius that would need surgery. That's when my brain caught up and smacked me in the face with the, "That's a trip hazard, move it somewhere MORE SENSIBLE!" thought that had dogged me all evening.
Over the past week, I've spent days in trauma clinic (it's called that for a reason you know?) waiting to find out when my operation would be. I've begged and pleaded with the registrar to refer me to Bupa so I could utilise my private medical insurance, and I've had to deal with grumpy nurses who decided to be offended by my decision. Finally after an apologetic phonecall from the admissions manager, I got my referral and was seen two hours later by a hand and wrist surgeon who gave me an operation slot the next day.
So now I sit here two days later with a metal plate holding my schmushed radius tip together, a front-slab cast being used as a splint to hold everything in the right position, and a pile of crochet glaring at me.
And I'm cursing my reflexes.
I'm quite clumsy really.