I had an accident last weekend. Preceding it, was one of those split second moments when your brain says “Don’t do it!” But you ignore it, do it anyway and, hey presto, it all goes badly wrong!
Why do we do this? You know the sort of thing I mean: you stretch just a bit too far to reach that large glass vase on a high shelf, your fingers graze it enough to dislodge it but not grasp it and it comes crashing down leaving shards of glass all over the floor, that you narrowly miss as you topple off the chair you’re standing on and hit the deck.
Or, you’re in a multi-story car park and see a space. It’s not quite wide enough but you tell yourself that with a bit of careful manoeuvring you will fit in. Two minutes later you’ve got a smashed wing mirror and the paintwork from your car is decorating one of the concrete pillars.
Or, mobile phones – they’re always good for a mishap: you are standing on the platform in a tube station – Piccadilly Circus in this instance, you hear the train coming and switch your phone from one hand to another, fumble in your bag for a tissue, the phone slips from your hand and you watch it tumble, over and over, in slow motion into the pit beneath the tracks below. All of these, reader, I have done!
The outcome of the phone incident was extraordinary – I knew the trains that were coming and going from the platform were high enough above the phone to not cause it any damage and let’s face it, no-one was going to risk their life jumping down there to steal it. At worst it was going to be very grimy and might get chewed by one or more of the tiny, dust-covered mice that one can see scurrying around beneath the tracks.
I went to the station control room to tell them what had happened. Initially they said I would have to leave it there for the moment and return once rush hour was over and trains were not coming through the station every two minutes. When I burst into tears and said I had to get home to make tea for my children, they relented and assigned me a high-viz jacket-clad chap called Dave, who accompanied me back down the escalator, carrying one of those long-handled grabber tools that litter pickers use – clearly, I was not the first to drop something on the tracks.
The platform was thronged with people: Piccadilly Circus is one of the stations that gets so busy at rush hour, passengers are ten-deep waiting for trains and to avoid the risk of someone falling onto the tracks, the station staff often close off the barriers to prevent any more people entering until a couple of trains have gone through and the platform has cleared.
Dave elbowed his way through the crowd shouting “Mind your backs folks” and led me to the edge of the platform from where we could see my phone in its red leather case lying there in the dirt. Then he did an extraordinary thing: he radioed the control room and I presume they switched on the stop light for, just as a train was about to enter the platform, it stopped. Everyone looked around quizzically wondering what was going on. Litter grabber at the ready, Dave leaned forward from the edge of the platform and on a second attempt, caught my phone between the prongs and returned it to me safe and sound. The onlookers burst into applause and, as I thanked him profusely, he disappeared back into the crowd, the train came in and we all got on heading homewards!
Anyway, back to last Saturday: I had was one of those “Don’t do it” moments. We have a ‘baby gate’ – in this case it’s used as a dog gate, that we put across to keep Finlay, our cocker spaniel, in the kitchen when we are upstairs. Otherwise, he is inclined to look for mischief and has, annoyingly, taken a liking to chewing my Lloyd Loom table. I was leaving the kitchen and, instead of opening the gate and then closing it again behind me, I tried to step over it – a very foolish move with my dodgy back and hip. As I was in motion, lifting my right leg, the warning voice sounded, but, too late! I carried on, caught my foot on the gate, fell backwards and crashed to the floor, on the way cracking my head on the corner of the granite worktop.
Answering questions at the hospital later, I confirmed that no, I didn’t lose consciousness and no, there was no vomiting. But there was an awful lot of blood. My husband was away, so no help forthcoming there, but fortunately I had a friend staying and I staggered out into the hall calling for her. She came rushing down the stairs to find me clutching my ear and dripping blood everywhere. “It’s going to need stitching Susy” she said, once she’d manged to stem the bleeding, “we need to get you to the hospital”. “But we can’t spend hours at A&E” I exclaimed, “what about my dinner party tonight?”
Three other girlfriends were joining us for dinner and I had been looking forward to the occasion for weeks. Most of the prep was already done, so just cooking was required. I had been feeling very smug that I’d been so organised. “You’ll have to cancel tonight” she said. I was adamant we were going ahead. “I’m sure it will be fine” I argued “Can’t we just put a sticking plaster on it?” She insisted I take a look in a mirror. “Oh,” I said sheepishly, “perhaps you’re right”
Two hours later, when a doctor and nurse were poking around in my ear and discussing the fact that I had sliced it open down to the cartilage (apologies if you’re squeamish), I acquiesced that I was fortunate to have such a sensible friend who only had my interests at heart and had insisted we get to the walk-in emergency centre nearby.
“Do you want us to do the sutures” the doctor asked, “or do you want to go to ENT?” Once I had established that ENT was Ear, Nose and Throat and that his question was purely related to aesthetics ie the specialists might do a neater job. I said absolutely not, as this would mean going to a larger hospital and an even longer wait: it was only my ear after all, I felt sure he could do a more than competent job and, besides, I had a dinner party to get home for, so time was of the essence.
Ten stitches and a prescription for antibiotics later, I was leaving. While he had painstakingly stitched up three sperate wounds, one deep inside my ear, the doctor and I had chatted about all sorts of things – anything to distract me from the procedure in hand. As I explained about my plans for the evening and checked that he thought it would be ok to go ahead with them, he said he didn’t see any reason why not, so long as I felt up to it and, being a good sport, suggested that in order to properly enjoy the chilled bottle of Prosecco waiting in my fridge, it would be best to start the antibiotics the next day. Now that’s my kind of doctor!
I felt a bit of a fool when I got home, and thanked my lovely friend for looking after me. I put the blood-splattered clothes I’d been wearing, including a favourite shirt, in salt water to soak and went off to get changed for the evening. The adrenaline coursing through my system was keeping me going. My girlfriends couldn’t believe I still wanted to see them and cook a risotto for them, but as I stood adding the stock and stirring, I listened to their excited chatter and laughter and was glad I had managed to weather the storm and go ahead with my plans. The Prosecco certainly helped to ease the throbbing pain!
I kept going as long as I was able but suddenly flopped at 11 30 and realised I needed to get to bed and rest.
The next day, I was musing on the fact that the whole thing could have been so much worse. As it is, I have a swollen ear with a zig-zag of stitches in it, a bruise on my thigh the size of a small country and I haven’t done my already painful back any favours, but frankly, I could have split my head open, broken a limb or worse. It seems the soft tissue of my ear cushioned the impact so I am thankful for small mercies!
I found myself remembering the numerous occasions when I have heard that warning voice in my head (and sometimes chosen to ignore it). I would describe it as gut instinct but is it, I wondered, instinct or would it more accurately be described as intuition?
A quick bit of research on the internet seems to show that instinct is something we are born with: part of the primitive urge for self-preservation it makes us aware of potentially harmful (or helpful) elements in our environment to which we respond automatically without having time to think.
Intuition, on the other hand, is something we gain through experiences and acquiring knowledge. It expands upon our ability to sense a hazard. “We might see something out of the corner of our eye”, says one source, “feel, sense, know or smell danger although we might only occasionally have the explanatory thought that goes with the sense”.
Whichever, both are there to guide us and keep us safe and I am a fool for choosing to ignore them. I’m making a commitment to myself right now that I listen to these warnings more often and stop thinking that a) I am invincible and b) that I know better!
I’d like to know, have you ever heard that warning voice and ignored it with calamitous results? If you’d like to comment, do so by clicking here and I shall respond
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Hi I enjoy your writing here. Thank you. Has your Insta been hacked? It’s gone strange. Apologies if it hadn’t but I hope all is ok. Best wishes.
Hi Susy, sorry to hear about your fall and hope you're recovering from the after effects. You write so well about the way we often ignore that wise inner voice of caution, which is very familiar and of course, like many people, I've ignored it at my peril. But it also made me think about when I did a self defence course many years ago and one of the key suggestions was to trust our intuition if we sense someone is not to be trusted or represents a danger. It's easy to dismiss that twinge of warning but our instincts are usually good and worth following - whether it's about not climbing on a wobbly chair, dashing across a busy road or moving away from someone who makes you feel uneasy. We are wiser than we realise. Take care everyone - but keep having fun!
Jenny x