A whole
week ago, off I jauntily set for one of my favourite weekly
activities, coffee with the 'girls' in Hotel Martin's in Oude Burg. I
had only really stepped outside before I tripped, really heavily,
over a protruding cobblestone, in fact, over a little cluster of
raised stones, in the square. I am not sure why, [the ageing slow
reactions I suppose] but I managed for the full impact of a swift
descent, to land on my chin. I won't go into details of the wonderful
kindness of strangers [and I always thought that that was a cliche]
nor the six hour longeur of the day in hospital. It is enough to say
that my jaw is broken in two places; the stitches in the chin and the
now week-old technicolour bruising to my neck, are as nought. The
wretched kaak, as the Dutch call it, now demands an entirely liquid
diet and no talking, no chewing, no laughing or yawning. In fact, a
closed mouth as much as is humanly possible. So I rebuff offers to
visit, which I would love; I ignore the phone and GSM; I have
temporarily stopped swimming but make myself go out for a walk each
day. The almost-worst thing is my loss of confidence outside the
flat; I thought I was super-careful; Brugge's cobblestones and
pavements are notoriously uneven and the object of much muttering
among the inhabitants. My neighbour, the pharmacist, did a similar
plunge a year ago and finished up with a broken leg in a wheelchair; I did
a tumble
in
January and landed on my thickly-gloved hands with only minimal
damage plus loss of dignity! But this time the after-effects are of
positively post-battle proportions
and I suppose could have been worse. But not that much.
A whole
week ago, off I jauntily set for one of my favourite weekly
activities, coffee with the 'girls' in Hotel Martin's in Oude Burg. I
had only really stepped outside before I tripped, really heavily,
over a protruding cobblestone, in fact, over a little cluster of
raised stones, in the square. I am not sure why, [the ageing slow
reactions I suppose] but I managed for the full impact of a swift
descent, to land on my chin. I won't go into details of the wonderful
kindness of strangers [and I always thought that that was a cliche]
nor the six hour longeur of the day in hospital. It is enough to say
that my jaw is broken in two places; the stitches in the chin and the
now week-old technicolour bruising to my neck, are as nought. The
wretched kaak, as the Dutch call it, now demands an entirely liquid
diet and no talking, no chewing, no laughing or yawning. In fact, a
closed mouth as much as is humanly possible. So I rebuff offers to
visit, which I would love; I ignore the phone and GSM; I have
temporarily stopped swimming but make myself go out for a walk each
day. The almost-worst thing is my loss of confidence outside the
flat; I thought I was super-careful; Brugge's cobblestones and
pavements are notoriously uneven and the object of much muttering
among the inhabitants. My neighbour, the pharmacist, did a similar
plunge a year ago and finished up with a broken leg in a wheelchair; I did
a tumble
in
January and landed on my thickly-gloved hands with only minimal
damage plus loss of dignity! But this time the after-effects are of
positively post-battle proportions
and I suppose could have been worse. But not that much.  |
| Other lovely grandchildren sent consolatory emails but 5 year old Genevieve was moved to Serious Art. |
However,
a new life skill has now been developed. Daughter in California sent
me an immediate delivery of a Nutribullet; son came over with bags of
nuts and honey and chai seeds to teach me how to do stuff. Et voila!
I'm into this super-healthy
smoothie-making like a young Metropolitan! It is all very chic and
easy and instant though I secretly long for the gorgeous bread from
Sint Paulus on Vlamingstraat and a hot chicken from Wednesday's
markt. Only five more weeks to go; first check-up in the hospital
yesterday revealed that the position of the jaw had not changed.
Hallelujah! The important aim is to keep it static and thus avoid a
nasty operation. I am hoping to be able to eat a Christmas dinner; SO
important as its
reassuring re-appearance brings one
annual sign
that Life Goes On Anyway.
During
my son's stay, immediately following my lapse, [and when,
paradoxically, I felt more interested in, and energetic for, doing
things] we wandered off to watch some of the fourth Urban Trail
taking place throughout the centre. Below my windows streamed what
seemed to be a non-stop cavalcade of runners aiming for the ambulance
entrance of the Zwarte Zusters, the hospital next-door to me. There
were yellow-suited marshals and Genthof was temporarily sealed off
with plastic tape. Much excited I quickly read bits of an item in
Exit and discovered that 5,000 runners were taking part in Brugge
alone and that it was part of a national effort.
 |
| Happy 'Trailers' queue for breakfast in the Grote Markt. |
 |
| Sightseeing as well as jogging; 5000 people take a serious look at the architecture of Brugge. |
 |
| Hans Memling looks down on the fateful cobblestones while I frequently gaze down on him and his lovely 19th century legs. [Hendrik Pickery. 1871] |
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