I have a sore behind.
My fault. I stuck my nose out the door, thought the air seemed quite a bit warmer and strode purposefully onto the back yard. As I hit the ice I skated for what seemed like a long time, waving my arms in Norman Wisdom-like, out of control slapstick movements, before feeling my legs fly vertically and my ample bottom to hit the hard ground. Serves me right. The weather has been doing some funny things the last few days, snowing, freezing and thawing all at the same time.
I now walk with a hunched back and a limp. It looks rather good and my dignity is restored by my disingenuous tales of old war wounds. No one is fooled and they can spot an old idiot who has fallen on his backside a mile away.
Sitting on the Flying Pig's already uncomfortable seat proved hard. The 'oohs' and 'aahs' took the childrens' minds off the excess of black ice and the feeling that the Flying Pig's back wheels would soon overtake the front. They just stared in stunned amazement.
It will be a mustard bath tonight and a tube of arnica ointment.
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