Instead, the Tweed Ride was cancelled because it has been pissing down all week, so we slept in and then Mr Brammers decided to wait until I had gone out for brunch to get up on a ladder, an an obtuse angle to the wall, on mossy pavement, in standing water, with nothing chocking the ladder or tying it to the wall. Unsurprisingly, it decided to give way to gravity and slam back down onto the ground, taking him with it.
He was in good enough nick to ring me to find out where I was, and then limp up to show me his black eye and assorted other bruises. Looking at his leg, where he had cracked the shin solidly on a rung of the ladder, I wondered if he might not have cracked the bone given how black the bruising was and how impressive the swelling.
Six hours later, he wondered the same thing, so up to casualty we trekked (in a taxi, he's not that stoic), where we have spent the last four hours. The good news is that it's not broken, though it was the worst bruising and swelling the doctor had seen without a break. The bad news is that it's awful bruising.
But the other good news is that he has spent the last three months mocking me CONSTANTLY about coming off my bike on an oil slick and breaking a little thumb bone in an accident that could have happened to ANYONE. He has now admitted that the mocking ball is well and truly in my court and that he will understand if I find myself compelled to hit him with it regularly.
Satire will have to wait. For now, sleep.