On Sunday I took the big dog out for a walkie in the snow and realised ‘tis the season for falling over. The pavements are either slithery with melting slop or trodden flat into ice-rinks. One little tug from the dog, and I would have been on my bum, or my ancient legs would have snapped like twigs.
Only now, at 75, do I wish I had a fat bum. I have hardly any bum left, and it is no fun, whacking one’s bones on the pavement. So I chickened-out and drove the car at 5mph to the park and walked on some safer grass.
Not that you need ice and snow to fall over: I have slipped and stumbled on summer leaves and tussocks, whacking my head on the baked ground, but here I still am with a fat knee and ankle from ricking, twisting and tripping so often. Isn’t it odd how it is always the same leg?
Naturally I am scared witless. A third of over-65s fall over at least once a year. Notice the “at least”. And falls are our most common cause of death from injury. Help! By 2021 there will be about 11 million of us tumbling about, and will we even have much NHS left? So watch out everyone over 65 ... Even Rosemary, who is fairly cavalier about her health, now brings a stick with her on walkies. Better to look doddery than break your neck.
But we cannot give up our dog walkies. Too much sitting does you no good. I recently travelled for four days across eastern Europe by train and coach, after which my knees would not straighten. Just my bad luck to have to shower in a hotel with a full-length mirror in the bathroom. I could not help but see myself minus clothes – a sickening sight which I always carefully avoid at home, and I spotted my legs. I am growing more and more tortoise shaped: stoopy back, widow’s hump, bent legs, poor balance.
So today I’m taking the dogs to visit elderly people living in sheltered housing. Their Christmas good deed. And the perfect walkie for us. An outing, but indoors.
