I was outside drawing when he got back from his walk. I saw his head first as he climbed up the back lane hill. I fell, he said as he approached. Apparently he’d caught his shoe on the edge of the kerb as he came out of the avenue and went, as he said, “arse over tit”. He thought he might have grazed his knee but there were not cuts. He was just shaken. He laughed later when he recounted it all to his sister on the phone, particularly when he was describing the rather large woman on the bench opposite who saw him fall but clearly dithered as to whether to get up and give him assistance. Are you OK? she asked, eventually, as he just about managed to get himself up. Poor love. I wish I’d been with him. It’s the humiliation, he said to his sister, who readily concurred, and the struggle to get yourself up again. To this she also agreed, knowing it all too well.
