The unknown victim

We live in a society that demands shoes taken off at the front door. We are all au fait with our coats being taken as a house guest, just look at 'Come dine with me'. But it won’t be long, I predict, before you hear the phrase ‘Can I take your shoes?’ upon house entry. For a long time now I have automatically taken my shoes off when entering my home. This may seem daft to some but for the rest it’s normality. Today, I’m regretting my stance on this issue.

One of the best forms of adrenaline is that which comes from the moment when you know ‘this is going to hurt’. Climbing smugly down the attic stairs following an impressive darts session, the glee was quickly wiped off my face as my feet went from under me. I crashed through the half-open door like a first-and-goal running back to hear the yelps of ‘Are you all right?’ 0.25 sec after I hit the ground. You’re never quite sure if you are in fact all right until about 5 seconds after. All you can do is let your senses reset and hope that you’re not greeted with agony on the other side. Thankfully today there was nothing broken. Just a few grazes but they never get any commiseration.

In these moments of hilarious stupidity I always rue my habit of wearing socks indoors. I fall down the stairs about twice yearly and every single time it is for that reason. Gasping in a heap all I can do is cuss the lack of grip with which my socks permit me. I could consider buying those slipper socks but a vague recollection tells me they were pants not to mention shoe unfriendly. No point wearing socks that you can’t wear shoes over I say.

When it comes to spills we all have fond memories of the RTE news ice faller but spare a thought for those who didn’t get the limelight. On Christmas Day last year while most were eating pudding or unwrapping bad gifts, I fell twice in as many roads unnoticed. In one footstep I went from perfectly upright to flat on my back. Duncan Stewart tells us that ‘gas is a silent killer’ but that ice is no godsend either.

In 2005 ice broke my elbow after it turned over my moped on a trip to DIT. Two doors down from my house, I swore like a Chinese rapist through my fogged up helmet. Abandoning both bike and reason, I stormed back to the house while the wheels spun and the engine continued purring in the background.

Society demands injury for sympathy and I’ve learned from experience that my recent slip will go largely uncommiserated. ‘Show me the wounds and I’ll show you my pity’ is the general consensus I have found and without a sling I am but an unknown victim. I urge those of you who un-shoe to take care around the house. Carpeted stairs are particularly hazardous.