This is the story of the lowest point in my life.
It started with some drunken silliness, as almost all low points do. Heading to the tube in high spirits, I decided to slide down the handrail instead of the boring orthodox standing on the stairs system in Angel tube station. This is the longest, and steepest escalator in the underground system. Although I had tried to give fellow escalator passengers as much room as I could, someone stepped out to walk down the stairs, and I was forced to bail my heroic Mary Poppins act, and landed face first, on one hand at the bottom of the escalator, other hand held high to protect my laptop. I continued the night of drinking, woke up in worlds of pain with my hand swollen up like a marigold glove. I decided it was a good time to go to A&E.
At the hospital, the doctor took an X-ray of my hand, then miraculously and surprisedly told me there were no broken bones visible. She then tried to straighten my fingers to assess ligament damage and I nearly passed out from the pain. She looked confused, acknowledging my very real agony and my hand’s unwillingness to comply. I looked at the Xray in front of her, and noticed something very wrong – ‘Eh, that’s a LEFT hand.’ I pointed out, ‘This’, holding up my own swollen and bruised appendage, ‘is a RIGHT hand.’. The mortified doctor apologised profusely, went to find my actual X-ray and confirmed a total of 5 broken bones in my right hand. Too exhausted, hungover and hurt to even care, I accepted her apologies as she splinted my right hand up for weeks, just as my thesis and final show was due.
Despite this, I was perked myself up enough to go out with friends that evening and try to laugh of the ridiculousness of the situation. Oops. A few too many, mixed with painkillers and suffering, and I was playing a silly game chasing a friend around Old Street station. I looked behind me whilst running, and ran comically directly off a small set of stairs. My left foot landed, followed almost instantly by my left ankle crashing hard on the cold tiles with a sickening crunch. Once again in agony, I pulled myself out of the way and hid from the oncoming passengers. A lady who saw tried to help, but I was too wounded to even accept it and told her to go away.
My friends struggled me home, and helped me up the 4 flights of stairs to my room. They then ordered an Indian takeaway, which, in my drunk and hurt state, was very, very welcomed. After the hot curry, I decided to search for something sweet, and found some scones. What I did not notice was the washing powder all over the surface I prepared them on. Halfway through, it clicked what that odd perfumery taste was and I immediately threw up everything I had eaten.
The next morning, my foot was no better and I decided it was time to visit that nice competent (ahem) lady doctor again. Before I left I decided to have a shower to feel clean and new. As I manoeuvred myself under the hot water, I slipped and fell face up in the shower. I grimaced and tried to pull myself up, but the exertion was too much for my fragile stomach and post-curry digestive system and I shit. Shit curry poo, in the empty bath I was lying in, and it ran with the water right up my spine, and into my hair at the nape of my neck. Decided there was nothing left to do, covered in pain, humiliation and my own shit, I had a little cry, and decided this was the lowest point in my life so far.
Just a funny story now, but fuck me, that’s what you call a heavy weekend.