Decked by the decking

A cautionary tale from the garden (with zero photos for obvious reasons)

This was not the post I planned to write this week, but I think I should share the good and the bad moments with you!

My accident started, as so many things do, with a comedy moment. Picture the scene: a rare dry spell had been followed by a short burst of summer rain, leaving our garden decking slick and treacherous.

I was weeding one of the borders, probably daydreaming about roses or wondering whether the jasmine needed a bit more sun, when I spotted some bindweed that had become way too comfortable and confident, curling its way around a tall shrub in its insidious manner.

Quickly mounting the two steps of our garden decking, I pulled the longest tendril off with satisfaction, and as I janked at the final bit of sinister green thread, my foot went out from under me like something from You've Been Framed.

Cue the banana skin, cartoon-style fall: legs flying, arms flailing, a brief, frozen-in-time moment of suspended animation and then thump, backwards onto the grass. If I’d landed a centimetre or two differently, I might have simply bounced up, brushing off grass and weeds with mild embarrassment. But no. As I tumbled, I instinctively flung my left arm out sideways to break the fall and instead landed smack on my wrist.

I knew immediately. There’s a certain type of pain that leaves no doubt. It wasn’t the ouch of a sprain or the sting of a cut; it was deep. I looked down and thought, Yep, that’s broken.

Luckily, from his desk in the garden room, Paul saw it happen and sprang into action with a calmness I found very reassuring. Our son joined the rescue effort, and together they rigged up a makeshift sling with one of my scarves. I should point out that it was not one of my favourites (thank goodness), and it did the job admirably.

Before long, we were at the hospital, where, incredibly, I was fast-tracked through A&E thanks to the telltale angle of my wrist. X-rays confirmed what we already suspected: a clean but nasty break, needing immediate realignment. That’s when things got interesting.

The plaster room is a place I hope never to see again, although the staff were, without exception, brilliant. Three nurses swung into action like the well-rehearsed team they are. One nurse gently explained what was going to happen, sending my blood pressure spiralling, while another prepared the plaster. The third was already sliding an enormous needle into my wrist to deliver a local anaesthetic.

They offered me gas and air, something I remembered as utterly useless during childbirth. But on this occasion? It helped. One of the nurses told me I was going to want to bite down on something, and she wasn’t wrong. My first gulp was so strong I managed to pull off the attachment. Perhaps it was the surprise of it, suddenly feeling slightly floaty and the relief that the pain was lessening, but I became quite merry - chatting, laughing, swapping birth anecdotes with the team.

Then came the part that should really belong on a medieval battlefield. One nurse pulled my arm strongly at the shoulder while another pulled my fingers in the opposite direction, and they held it - held it - in traction for what felt like forever (but was probably more like ten minutes). As they pulled, I could feel things shifting and clicking into place, not exactly painful, thanks to the anaesthetic, but a deeply weird feeling.

The plaster nurse then carefully wrapped my wrist and forearm in layers of soft padding and plaster, forming a sort of cocoon around my injured wrist. One final X-ray confirmed the bones were now aligned, and I was discharged with a bulky white cast and a list of instructions, together with a strong sense that the NHS more than deserves its good reputation.

And now? Well, I’ve gone from fast two-handed touch typing to learning to type one-handed in a ploddy manner. It's slow, and frustrating, and reasonably comical. There’s something about learning to do a familiar task in a completely new way that keeps the brain on its toes. I've become an expert at opening packets with one hand and eating everything from a bowl. Buttons are the enemy. Zips are no friend either. But the family has stepped in with extra kindness, and my daughter arrived for the day with a bunch of beautiful flowers. There is always a silver lining.

I keep thinking back to that one, stupid moment. The pull on the weed, the slip, and the instinctive arm-fling, and wondering whether I could have done anything differently. But life doesn’t work like that. Accidents happen. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re painful. Sometimes they’re both.

There’s a lesson in it somewhere. Maybe it’s about slowing down. Maybe it’s about watching your footing, literally and metaphorically. Or maybe it’s just that slimy, wet decking and a wandering mind are a dangerous combination.

In the meantime, I’ve discovered that a broken wrist buys you a surprising amount of sympathy, and I'm not above using it to avoid the washing up.

The garden, of course, carries on without me, roses blooming, grasses waving, birds unbothered by human drama. And once this cast is off and my bones are mended, I’ll be back out there again. Though possibly with non-slip shoes.

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