If you’re going to fall over and fracture your shoulder, then try not to do it on a freezing Saturday evening in January. That would be my advice, anyway, especially if you’re a month short of your 86th birthday. Sitting in the waiting room in the emergency department of Russells Hall hospital, Dudley, I told my dad that his timing stank. He nodded miserably, offering no defence.
He took his tumble sometime in the afternoon. I always beg him to carry his mobile at all times, in case this happens. He rarely complies, but on this occasion he had, if only by accident. It was in his pocket; he had been wondering where it had got to. It was only when it buzzed that he realised it was there, the lucky devil. If it hadn’t been, I would be writing something different now, or probably not writing anything at all.
