I have sore knees. I took the dogs out for walkies and Muffin stopped to do a poo on the pavement. Like the responsible citizen that I am, I carry plastic poop scoop bags with me. Plus, there are sometimes faeces police in hi-viz jackets skulking around. It is one of the few misdemeanours where you can get done for not being in possession.
But I digress. I bent down to reap the brown harvest and my fingers poked through the bag. Either my digits just stopped short of the prize, or just touched it and no more. I wasn’t sure and didn’t do the obvious test, I just took out another bag and, in almost gale force winds, managed to pick up the other bag and the booty.
You might be wondering how the sore knees came about. Well, I had been standing in the gutter to pick up Muffin’s pavement art and I stood up, took a few steps and tripped on the kerb. I was felled like a great oak. Time seemed to go slower than usual. Slow enough to prepare for the inevitable crash landing by letting go of the dogs’ leads and spreading my hands to cushion my landing. It is handy how time slows down. On my way down I also had time to recite a couple of Shakespearean sonnets and say “it’s a lovely evening” to a passing stranger. My final thought before hitting the ground was that I hope my specks don’t get broken, as I hate going to the opticians.
As I lay motionless on the ground, Muffin came over to lick my face while I carried out an initial damage assessment. Knees: both sore. Hands: not bad. Glasses: intact. I was wondering if I had landed on a jobby, but on getting to my feet, I realised that I hadn’t.
So, as I sit here now with slightly sore knees, I think about how much worse it could have been. Even now, I could have been crawling home with broken bones, squinting through cracked glasses and covered in poo.
Life could be a lot worse, so don’t let it get you down.