Death Comes for Springheel (Again)

It is a fine morning… A fine late summer London morning, pale blue sky, a skein of thin white cloud washing out the sunlight to silver-gilt, bathing the Portland stone of the city buildings, caressing the cornices and mouldings, setting them into relief with the deftest touches of shadow. It is pleasantly cool, but not cold. The Gardens of the Middle Temple are still alive with flowers. The fountains play under the mulberry trees and late bees drowse and bumble along, gathering the last of summer as they go.

I notice these things today, because I am very much aware of my surroundings and everything is in very sharp focus for me. Everything is in very sharp focus because yesterday evening, at about 7:45pm, I found myself airborne at an angle of over 45 degrees and travelling at considerable speed as I fell down stairs.

I would submit there is a taxonomy of stair falling. I identify three basic methodologies: the first is the Vertical Slip, in which one falls backwards and simply endures a juddering descent on one’s coccyx; painful, bad for the back, but probably the least worst option. I performed this one with aplomb on some wet steel stairs on Tuesday night. Next, we have the Head-over-Heels, in which one falls forward then rolls down the stairs like a bundle of washing. Finally, there is the Hell For Leather, in which one trips and sails gracefully outwards, airborne and face down, in a gentle arc that results in a horrifying head-first impact. These latter two are the ones to avoid, leading as they can do to the wheelchair, the iron lung or the grave. Of course, hybridisation is possible. A Hell-for-Leather can evolve, after the first impact, into a Head-over-Heels; and vice versa. Gravity is concerned primarily with ensuring a general downward movement, rather than expressing itself in any particular way.

Last night I found myself, with what appeared at the time to be horrifying slowness, tripping at the very top of the stairs and engaging in a “Hell For Leather” arcing flight. I can recall my thoughts in surprising detail. What amazes me is that I had time to think how much trouble I would be in with the memsahib if I broke any bones, and also to think how embarrassing it would if I died through falling down stairs. Then I had time to think how painful it was going to be when I landed. All in a tiny fraction of a second.

If I had fallen toward the left, I would not be writing this now. As it was, I fell very slightly to the right and managed to get a finger tip, then a hand, on the rail as I flew past. The grip allowed me to stop myself by the simple expedient of pulling myself into the wall and allowing the impact to halt me. Despite the fact that I am a willowy 11 ¾ stone (about 164lb – and that’s willowy when you’re 6ft 2, alright?) this obviously placed some fairly hefty stresses on my right wrist and arm and the impact was not pleasant. So today, I feel as though…well, exactly as though I have fallen downstairs.

But whilst I am a hobbling, sprained and shaken shadow of my normal self, life is good. Indeed, life is beautiful - because I am not a crippled Springheel , or a paralysed Springheel, or a dead Springheel.

But I really must be a little more careful in future.