Another Slip Up

Yesterday afternoon, I planned to luncheon with a friend in Dún Laoghaire. I readied speedily and left the apartment for Grand Canal DART Station. The weather was miserable. I reminded myself it was only two days ago Dad and I picnicked on the banks of the Dodder with coffee, sandwiches and King Crisps. Autumn certainly knew how to make an entrance.

I was spared any substantial showers, tolerating a light drizzle, until the Heavens opened and emptied its reservoirs. My mack provided little protection from the fierce downpour. Why even bother to get dressed up? I asked myself as rain ran from my sopping hair, down my face and into my mouth. The weather left a bad taste in my mouth in the form of my hair gel, which by then I could taste. I quickened my pace.

I arrived and commenced my ascension of the steps of Grand Canal Station, looking upwards, longingly, towards the shelter of the entrance. Halfway through my incline, I did what I do best; I slipped and fell. The surface of the wet, tiled steps provided insufficient grip – to my already well worn brown shoes – causing my left foot to slide without a hint of friction. I fell forward, extending my arms before me, to catch myself. “Ugh, shit.” I roared aloud. My palms and sleeves of my jacket splashed into a sizeable puddle on the next step. I was momentarily startled.

I picked myself up from the steps., wiping my wet hands on my jacket, noting stiffness in my left arm. “Awwww, bollocks.” I twisted and moved my arm to assess if there was any damage. Only then did it dawn on me to check for an audience. I turned and looked downwards; no one followed me on the slippery staircase. I scanned the greater, surrounding area, feeling relief there wasn’t a soul to be seen. My arm might have been sore, but my pride – for once! – remained intact.

I ran into the train station.

Whoopsie Daisy

Early one Sunday night, a few friends and I had beers outside the Ocean Bar. This was two weekends ago. The weather had been glorious. We gathered on the jetty of Grand Canal Dock. The evening slowly cooled but not so much that an eclectic group of people sat by the waterfront. Plenty of sun scorched, red flesh was on display. The eye candy was top notch. A friend and I returned from the off licence bearing beers. We strolled towards the waterfront, absorbing  the many sights.

In front of the marina hangs a chain not of exceptional height. The lowest part reaches my knees. This obstacle separated us from our friends. I lifted my leg to what I presumed was an adequate height. My toes caught the chain. I tripped and fell forward. My trip swung the chain, causing my companion to also tumble. I quickly apologised. Pain ran through my shin. It throbbed and stang sharply. It was then I realised dozens of people potentially had witnessed my awkwardness. Surprisingly, there was no cheer. I limped away agonisingly.

We arrived at our patch on the marina; I recounted the incident to my friends.

Jeni corrected me. “No, Stephen! You fell! You fell on your own and took me down with you. Miraculously, neither of us dropped one beer.”

This is not the first time I have tripped over a railing. A few years ago, on a beautiful, sunny day on the canal near Baggott Street, a significant number of people sat with their food on the adjacent grassy bank. I left work for lunch,  intending to cross the canal. A similar obstacle awaited me; a chain railing. I attempted an elaborate run and jump. Following a quick dash, I sailed gracefully through the air. The toe on my – perhaps too – pointy shoe clipped the chain. I landed flat on my face with my arms outstretched before me. I lay face down on the grass for a nanosecond, momentarily, coming to terms with the incident. A loud cheer erupted from the many diners. I was mortified. I dusted myself down and vacated the area speedily. Later, returning to the office via the same route, I prayed I would not be recognised. There was no more applause.

I recall other clumsy events in addition to my inability to scale knee high railings: A few months ago, I walked into a filing cabinet at work. This filing cabinet has been in the same place for months. One particular day, my spatial awareness took a vacation. I walked straight into it. Then there was the time I walked into the row of desks; extremely painful. So hard was my collision that the entire row of desks shook. The occupants looked puzzled. I attempted to mask my limp. I whined under my breath with each painful step. There are occasions I’ve bungled basic things like walking. I have walked into the gate outside my house, missed a kerb on Parnell Street, missed another kerb on the Navan Road and tore the knee out of an expensive suit when I fell running for a bus.

Last night I visted Boots on Grafton Street to look for a toothbrush. On a typically, disorganised aisle, I lowered to my hunkers to examine the shelf. I balanced my weight on my right leg. A man walked by. I caught him in the corner of my eye. It was then I fell over on my side. He jumped out of the way. My considerable mass avoided him. I sat flat on my ass, looked up and apologised. We both laughed. He was genuinely tickled by the incident. About ten minutes later I met him at the cash point. He giggled as soon as he saw me. My clumsiness brought a smile to someone’s face.

I frequently discover purple and yellow bruises when in the shower. More than often I cannot pinpoint the cause. At the moment my left shin is yellow from the remnants of a bruise. My right knee is scabbed from the chain railing. This pain has prompted me to read around the subject of clumsiness. There are many theories to why people are clumsy. Common causes are imbalance, fatigue, lack of spatial awareness, bad eyesight and insomnia. I discussed this at lunch today. Some colleagues advised I should invest in a bracelet containing magnets to correct what ever imbalance I have in my magnetic fields. I dismissed this as hooey.

I don’t need magic, magnetic bracelets. What I need is a colossal amount of padding to reduce the impact for when I ultimately collide with stationary objects.

Falling for/on You

One morning, a few weeks ago, I was late for work. I arrived at my bus stop to have one of those moments when every bus in the world passes you. “It could be twenty minutes before there’s another bus,” I thought. I decided to attempt a sprint to the next bus stop to catch one of the buses that had just whizzed by. Like the wind, I dashed. I sprinted past many staring commuters. I bounded down the road with giant leaps. I was gaining on the bus. I recall my foot catching on something, before I hurtled forward and landed on all fours. I picked myself up. Some concerned individuals began motioning towards me. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said as self-composed as I could muster. I ran towards the bus again. I reached the bus stop in time. In my seat I examined my wounds; grazed hands and badly cut knee. The fall had torn a hole in my favourite pair of trousers. I became emotional. I fought back the tears, not wanting to be one of those crazy people who cry on the bus  – especially, if it were tears shed over a pair of torn trousers. I spent the day feeling sorry for myself and buying sweets. Boyfriend was great. He texted me over the course of the day to make sure I was OK. At home Boyfriend and I discussed the event.

“You’re always falling and tripping over something,” he said accusingly. “You really need to be more careful.”

“I am not always falling,” I replied in astonishment at the accusation. “You make me out to be some lecherous alcoholic who tumbles in the streets. When did I last fall?” I said smugly.

“You once slipped and fell on the way home from the gym. In the last year, while jogging, you’ve had at least two trips from which you’ve been injured badly. You fell during the wedding in Italy. You limped for two days. You’ve also missed the kerb a few times when just walking. Is that enough examples?”

 “Yes, it is” I responded coldly, consumed with my returning memories of clumsiness.

Since this conversation, I have been more aware of my daily stumbles. I’ve realised, on average, I trip at least twice a week. The majority of times it happens on the stairs of a bus. The stairways of Dublin buses are quite dangerous. They are steep. Add to this the fact that the stairs are moving and you have a potential death trap. The new buses accelerate at an incredible rate that often sends passengers hurtling forward. Twice last week I tumbled down the stairs to a wide eyed audience of seated passengers. On Monday, while climbing the stairs, the bus revved suddenly. I toppled forward and buried my head between a woman’s calves. She wasn’t at all pleased. This morning, while lowering myself into the seat ass first, the bus accelerated dramatically. I wobbled. The woman next to me cowered as my weight briefly hovered over her in a seated position. It was the closest thing to a lap dance on public transport she will likely experience. I saved myself by grabbing the bar. She didn’t seem bothered by the fact I didn’t deliver a lap dance. A pole dance was sufficient.  I apologised and sat safely in my seat.

Ten minutes later it was time to run the gauntlet again; time to get off the bus.