Wendyl Nissen: Mummy long legs

When I was young I had permanent scabs on my knees and elbows, thanks to a weekly "tumble". Without fail I would end up face-down on the ground, bum in the air, having tripped over something real or imagined.

I was a clumsy girl, there was no denying it. My parents refused to believe this, however, and persisted in spreading the myth that I was just a young colt getting used to her long legs. And my common falls were given the softer, more feminine name of a "tumble".

Eventually I learned how to stay upright for longer than a week, then a month, and despite my concerted efforts to throw caution to the wind during my love affair with high heels in my 20s, I have been a reasonably solid sort of girl ever since, my two feet reliably grounded and stable most weeks.

And then my childhood caught up with me. I have come full circle and find myself lying on the ground again, revisiting the familiar grit of concrete, the sheen of wood, the damp squish of earth on my face.

"Why are you lying on the veranda?" my husband asked, quite reasonably, one morning.

"Making the most of the winter sun, isn't it glorious?" I replied, remembering not to wince as I moved my ankle.

"It looks like you have fallen over, especially as you are halfway across the front step and your head is hanging down over the second step."

"Yoga stretch," I insisted.

"It's okay if you have fallen, let me help you up."

"Not able to move quite yet, still stretching."

I knew from my childhood experience that you are best to lie prone for a while to let your body readjust and sort everything out before leaping up. Most people make the mistake of bouncing to their feet, anxious to move on and not dwell on their clumsiness.

A week before I had slid on my bum all the way down the front steps of our house, ending up at the bottom with a handful of rose thorns which had failed to slow my slide as I grabbed at the garden.

And just days earlier I had intended to clean out the chicken coop and ended up face-down, having found myself unable to halt a slow tilt forward as I reached inside.

Then came the most dramatic fall of all. One where I seemingly launched myself into mid-air off the veranda and landed with a thump so loud that I could hear it reverberate around the neighbourhood.

It was closely followed by a loud groan emitted from my chest - not from the pain, just the boring repetitiveness of it all.

My husband came running and immediately started dialling 111 when he saw my prone, lifeless body, eyes closed, a woman concussed.

And then he stopped.

"Is that a pillow under your head?"

"Yes it is," I said, opening my eyes.

"So you are now walking around with a pillow in case you fall?"

"Might be."

A rather tense conversation followed about my ageing body and the degree of acceptance which was needed to prevent a fall which would inevitably lead to some broken bones.

"I'm as fit as a fiddle," I insisted. "I just fall and then lie there for a while and then I get up and there's nothing wrong with me. Please stop fussing."

"You are getting older," said my husband. "Something you might not want to accept, but you will be 50 in a few years and you need to start preparing for the fact that you might be a bit wobbly on your old pins."

He then presented me with a walking stick. "Just keep it near you for a while and see if it helps."

I now have a massive bruise on my leg created by breaking a wooden stick over my thigh until it became kindling - but not before it was put to good use poking my husband in the chest.