When it All Goes Horribly Wrong!

Regular readers will know that the highlight of my spring every year - and this year has been no exception - is the annual bell-ringing expedition to explore the delights and challenges of places new.  From the early part of last week, I had been feeling 'demob happy' on the brink of this year's adventure.  By Thursday evening my bag was packed, draped with my coat in the corner of the bedroom and perhaps I should have taken it as a bad omen when, venturing into the bedroom in darkness (as has been my wont 'since Noah were nobut a lad') I forgot it was there, caught one leg on the bag, the other on the chair it was parked against and landed unexpectedly on the bed!

However, I'm not into omens, good or bad, and didn't give the incident a second thought until several days later.  Home from work on Friday, all I had to do was change my clothes and pop the bag into the car and I was away, collecting two friends en route, and on our way to Warwickshire, where we stayed at the same hotel we had used last year, aiming this year to visit a different selection of churches against whose bells we would test our mettle.

All went well until after lunch on Saturday afternoon.  We had driven through country lanes and made our way into the small town of Knowle.  Passing the church and finding the parking spaces outside all full, we drove around the corner to a public car park, paid and displayed our ticket, secured the vehicle and were making our way back to the high street and round to the church.  All of a sudden I found myself pitched forward.  I stumbled, failed to regain my balance and just had time to realise that I was about to fall on the pavement before gravity completed the manoeuvre and I was laying breathlessly horizontal.

I cannot praise my two friends enough.  With all thoughts of bells cast away, they were instantly by my side, reassuring me and trying to keep me still while I recovered my breath as I gazed helplessly up to the sky and wondered what was going to happen next.  Meanwhile one of them had produced a tissue and had wiped blood from my forehead ... far more than seemed possible from the tiny cut that I later observed in the mirror back at the hotel.  Before long I was back on my feet, and shakily making my way - under close observation - to the church.  While the others joined our friends in the tower, I rested, wandered into the church and then out into the sunshine around the churchyard.

The rest of the weekend found me not ringing some lovely bells, but enjoying the warm sun and some beautiful villages.  After visiting two churches to help ring for their services on Sunday morning, we found a convenient garden centre coffee shop for lunch and made our way home.  Once I'd taken both of my friends home, I decided that, although I was feeling no worse that I'd expected, albeit very sore, it might be wise to seek medical confirmation that nothing more serious was amiss.  A visit to a supermarket pharmacy led to a call from their car park to the NHS111 online service, who made a telephoned assessment of my condition. But, because I admitted the very slight head injury, they advised a visit to A&E to be 'checked out face-to-face'.

Anxious that taking pain killers wouldn't mask the symptoms of anything to actually worry about, I followed their advice and, after the usual respiratory and blood tests, I was seen by a doctor, was sent for an X-ray and then returned to the doctor to be told that my ribs weren't even cracked, let alone broken, but merely bent, so I drove home at last, thankful that nothing more serious had been revealed and hopeful that my next weekend away from home will not be so eventful!

Two lazy days ensued, as I cancelled all physical activities but I did drive over to Suffolk one evening, where one of the nearer branches of the Family History Society were staging a talk about an event local to the area of south Norfolk where I grew up.  Although it happened long before I was born, I was aware of the main events of the longest strike in history - the 25-year School Strike in the village of Burston - but it was good to learn the fine detail of this story of social division and inter-class persecution stretching back to the early years of the last century

Today I was back at work as a relief driver on one of the Hospice vans, but careful to leave the heavier lifting to others.  Hopefully my recovery will continue and I'll be fit enough to resume normal life next week.  I'm also praying for patience if this should prove not to be the case!