J's mother has a wooden walkway from the back entry of her house to the mother of all garden/storage sheds out back. This was because at the age of 88, she wanted to be sure she had a stable surface underfoot when she went out there.
A few days ago, J had transported some glass blocks out to the storage area in the shed and was, uh, storing them there. I went out to see the shed. It still fascinates me to have that monster available. One might house refugees in less space. I followed the walkway out, stepped up the ramp to the little landing at the shed's doorway and tripped off the edge of the platform and down onto two large but empty boxes he had thrown there temporarily.
The boxes broke my fall nicely and I had my usual involuntary reaction when viewing or taking part in a pratfall. I lay there giggling. I still grin when I think of the grace displayed.
The heating pad is taking care of the sore shoulder nicely, thank you . . .
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Ho-ho-how are you today? Still sore shouldered? Still grinning? Thank goodness J. had tossed those boxes down or the fall would have been onto the cold hard ground. More damage that way, so your Gdn Angel was definately supervising box placement that day. Still.... your career as Ranger-the-Stunt-Woman-Extraordinaire is declared hereby officially over. And Done. Und Kaput. This from the sister who fell a mere six inches into a muddy hole the dog excavated and wound up with 6 weeks therapy for an impinged rotator cuff. GACK. No more pratt falls, please!
Muddy holes are the worst. You can't tell how deep they are. Injury-deep or swallow you up-deep. Careful is my new watchword unless I trip over a dog.
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