There Is No June

[Sweder]

A prophetic title, as things panned out. There really was no June to speak of. Aside from a couple of Twitten runs, a Parkrun and a memorable hill climb with the Cat in a lightening storm, this month has seen little action. Unless you count my nose-dive off the shed roof on Saturday.

What was I thinking? After a week of long days and beery nights in Hamburg I was pretty much shattered. Hedge-trimming at height, with a powerful new (and heavy) petrol-driven Husquvana was nothing short of madness. I managed to trim the bulk of the hedge along one side of the garden before climbing onto the slightly sloping shed roof in order to reach the higher fronds. I walked forwards, giving the front edge a refined look, before reversing with the blade extended across the hedge top. Sadly, the gap in which the shed resides is not entirely filled, and so it was that I moon-walked straight over the edge.

It's an eight foot drop onto York flagstone, a certain trip to casualty (or the morgue) for anyone dumb enough to fall off. Happily for me, several things happened in that moment. The raging tool in my left hand (easy now) swung away from any body parts that might be easily severed. My other hand instinctively reached for the top runner of the fence, which, faced with a large man falling fast, instantly gave way. I was saved by two things. One, the honeysuckle laced around the nearby trelice snagged the falling fence-top and held firm; two, the church pew, now residing in the gap previously occupied by our decrepit barbecue, provided a soft-ish platform on which to lower my dangling form.

The roof edge saw fit to tear the shoe off my right foot and impart a collection of lacerations down my lower calf and ankle. I took a whack on the back left ribs (now swollen and bruised) and my left elbow is turning purple. Most worryingly, my right hamstring appears to have 'done something' in all this. It feels raw and tender, hence the lack of Twitten run yesterday. I'll take it out for a speculative meander later.

All this a year almost to the day that I drank 8 pints of triple-filtered honey-beer and walked into a tram in Rotterdam. I'm 55 this year. It may be time to moderate my behaviour. Or not. We'll see. Here's to a better end to the month and a cracking July.