“What did you do to yourself?”
“I fell down the stairs.”
“What stairs? We don’t have any stairs.”
“At the podcast. The studio has stairs. They’re the ones I fell down. Well, not all of them. I just missed the last one and it all kinda just went south from there.”
“Do you need me to take you to the hospital?”
“Fuck no. I’m OK. Just a little banged up.”
“The moaning and groaning sounds you’re making tell me you’re more than a “little banged up”. You’re actually panting at the moment.”
“I pant when I’m in pain. But I’ll be fine. Just give me a few days.”
“You can’t seem to walk. Is that going to resolve itself in a few days?”
“Absolutely.”
“What happened? You’ve been using stairs your whole life. Did you suddenly forget how they work?”
“Very funny. No, I did not forget. I just somehow overlooked the last step. And then I plummeted forward – obviously with the grace of a hunting leopard – and crashed into the thick glass doors that open onto the street. They are now broken.”
“You crashed through glass doors?”
“No. I crashed into the glass doors. It was very thick glass, and I managed to get my arm up in time to stop my face hitting them. But I did knock them off their runners. They are now wedged in the open position and will not close. The building manager is worried the place may be robbed in the night.”
“OMFG! The building manager came out?”
“Lots of people came out. My impact made a lot of noise. The building manager said he thought a car had hit the entrance.”
“Well, you are quite substantial.”
“Now is not the time to be fat-shaming me.”
“How did you not go through the glass? It would have ben very bad if you’d crashed through the glass.”
“I know. But my cat-like reflexes prevented that. My mighty arm shielded my delicate face, and my knee took most of the impact when it hit the ground. That’s why it doesn’t work very well now.”
“Is it broken?”
“No. I think it will more or less bear my weight in a few days. It still sorta bends. But it is causing me great pain.”
“Stupid old man. You had a stupid old man stair incident, didn’t you?”
“You’re being very judgemental.”
“You fell down the fucken stairs and crashed into a fucking door. And no-one was chasing you.”
“I need a shower. Could you give me a hand getting my pants and socks off?”
“Is that where we are?”
“Yep. That’s where we are.”
“Stop whining. Seriously. It’s bad enough you make all those grunting noises when you get dressed. But now you sound like a massive whimpering bitch.”
“I’m in fucken pain, you heartless beast! Hey, you reckon you could maybe help me wash myself?”
“Fuck off, idiot. I’m not washing you. And don’t even open your mouth about any bum-wiping. That’s the red line.”
“But I’m not sure I can get to my back, and I’m convinced my arse-crack is unreachable.”
“You hurt your knee, idiot. Your spine and your arms seem to work just fine.”
“It’s the torsional stresses, you know, the twisting action needed to get between my cheeks could be a problem.”
“Fuck off. Do what you have to do. Dribble shampoo down your back, let it run into your arse, do a little dance, rinse, move the fuck on.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING…
“What the fuck was that shit at 2am?”
“I had to go to the toilet.”
“It sounded like you were having a stroke. At first I thought it was the dog panting and groaning and wanting to be let outside. Then I realised it was you trying to turn over in bed.”
“To be fair, I was trying to get out of bed. It’s a process.”
“You were whimpering. Like, literally whimpering. There was also keening, moaning, grunting, and the ‘Sssssssss’ sound men make when they’re trying not to cry. It was funny…but I did feel a little sorry for you. You must be in a bit of pain.”
“I’m in a lot of pain. As if you care.”
“I care very much.”
“But you won’t wash my arse?”
“I don’t care that much.”
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