By The Fresser. Last Sunday didn't turn out exactly as planned I was up bright and early. Hair and make-up done. New dress on β after the several costume changes a lady has to do.
Panel notes prepped and ready. Transporting a pile of washing to fling in the machine on my way out the door, I slipped on our stair carpet and fell down the stairs, landing on the edge of a step on my hip and tuchus. I wasn't even wearing heels. Text messages went to JC colleagues to cover for me. Next call was to my mother, who dropped everything and zoomed over β as only a Jewish mother can.
Mr Fresser sleeping off an overnight shift was hauled out of bed to transport me, in my finery to Watford General. Even getting into the car was excruciating. The trip brought back memories of the contraction-ridden drives to St Mary's, Paddington before the mini-Fressers arrived.
Five hours, two x-rays and one embarrassing ride on a hospital trolley later, I was dispatched with heavy drugs to dull the pain.
Nothing broken nor fractured it seems that tuchus is sufficiently padded to have saved my bones just severe bruising or muscle damage. I missed the panels, demos, workshops and any fressing opportunities. The catering was not a patch on what I could have been enjoying. At least I looked fabulous β if a little over dressed for a hospital waiting room β in my cream linen dress and silver jewellery.
