16.X.2026

Week before last Miss X was taking me homeward in a hospital wheelchair. These have little wheels or casters and can be guided best when the chair is dragged backwards rather than pushed, so I was facing  backwards and missed everything that happened.

 

We had just swallowed a butternut chilli in the staff restaurant and were headed for the coffee shop when at the top of a slope the thing swung round and Miss X lost control and fell onto the tiles, striking her pretty little skull.

 

I staggered  to my feet with the help of my walking stick, having seen nothing  but heard her cry like that of a faun beneath a tractor wheel. That chair had had 160 pounds giving it momentum.

 

If you’re going to fall consider a hospital, because we were soon surrounded by concerned faces and skilful hands. Miss X was as always worried about someone else, namely me, saying, ‘Please look after  my partner, he’s not well.’

 

I followed the angels who were taking her in another chair to the A&E department.  I was directed to the relatives’ room, a bare cubicle with four chairs. There I prayed to the Lord. After a while I was taken to a side room where the princess lay with plenty of electrodes, answering questions. (The side room was a great privilege, I heard later.) Then a head scan was organised—that was two of us had been scanned that day. Thank the deity, she was then issued a clean b. of h. and we went out for a taxi.

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