A BAD TRIP

The word trip has many meanings. In the 60s it could refer to a psychedelic experience. If you were lucky, you had a good trip; if unlucky a bad one. It's also refers to a small journey or short holiday. And, of course, it can refer to when you lose your footing.

I was going on the second type of trip towards the end of July. I was going to spend two weeks in Ireland, staying in the house of a friend’s late grandmother. Then I was going to spend a week in North Wales before going to the Midlands to see my eldest stepson and then final week in Somerset where 14 of my friends we're going to join me in a birthday dinner.

I decided to take this holiday to escape the awful July and August heat in the South of France. Fortunately, I had installed air conditioning in my apartment two weeks before I left.

I got to Nice airport in plenty of time and decided to go for a coffee. I glanced around the cafe and saw a seat. I turned towards the counter and then, thud, I was lying prone on the floor. People rushed to help me up but I waved them away so I could recover for a moment. Then a man held out his hands and helped me to my feet.

Two airport staff arrived within minutes. They asked me if I could raise my arm which I couldn't do without pain and said did I want to go to hospital. I shook my head. “I think I've just bruised my arm,” I said. “I'll be alright to fly.”

A nurse came and checked me over and one of the men said I should probably ask for assistance in order to board. So I was whisked through security and passport control and onto the plane. The chief steward asked me if I thought I was OK to fly and I noticed the pilot peering at me thoughtfully. “It's only a bruise,” I said optimistically. I nipped into the toilet but struggled to get out again.

Chastened, I said I thought I shouldn't fly after all. The steward seemed relieved, one of his colleagues came and sat beside me and put her arm around my shoulder telling me I'd made a good decision as any turbulence would be a problem. The pilot came out with a huge look of relief and went out to find airport assistance.

Of course the flight was delayed while my bag was taken off. I shall never complain about a delayed flight again.

I rang my good friend Susanne who had just dropped her boyfriend off at the airport and was halfway home. She turned around and came to collect me.

“Take me home,” I said.

“I'm taking you to hospital,” she replied.

I was very grateful. The X-ray showed I had a dislocated shoulder and a slight fracture. I was taken to a side room where two doctors appeared. An anaesthetist gave me gas and air and the young doctor smiled and told me to think of lovely ladies. I immediately saw images of my late wife, when I knew her as a teenager, when we met once again in our 40s, her waiting for me in Paddington station wearing a blue beret, on holiday in Egypt, on our wedding day and moving to where we live now.

The young doctor leaned over and asked, “How are you feeling Mr. Smith?”

“I'm fine,” I answered. “When are you going to start?”

“We've done it,” she said. “We put back your shoulder.”

I hadn’t even felt them touch me.

“You’ll stay the night,” she continued, “and hopefully go home tomorrow.”

I was visited by three friends, Madjid, Tiffany and Heidi the next day which was the beginning of a wonderful time when my friends rallied round.

I had to stay a second night while the hospital decided whether they needed to work on my fracture. Fortunately, this did not seem necessary and I was discharged. I was fitted with a complex and very supportive sling I would have to weigh  night and day for four weeks with a possible extension to six. I felt like a knight in armour.

My friends Susanne and Tiffany came to collect me and take me home. The first thing I did was put on my air conditioning.