My fall into sobriety

I am occasionally teased. In a column devoted to drink, which in practice usually means wine and often the products of Bordeaux to give one plenty of scope, I am accused of divergence towards the byways and wildernesses of vinous intellectual life. But as we approached glorious festivals, surely events themselves would impose their own disciplines and their own agenda. So what could possibly go wrong?

What a foolish question to ask. As with all human affairs, the answer is a simple one: anything you can think of. There is a great lady approaching her 90th birthday. A few weeks ago, she reported chatting with her friends and also a conversation with her doctor. ‘Mary, at your age you can drink what you like. You can eat what you like. You can smoke what you like. You can say what you like.’ (Whether that would always be wise is another matter.) ‘You can do everything you like, but don’t have a fall.’ I took no notice of that sensible advice. I should have done. Charging around, late, desperate to find an article by Douglas Murray, I tripped. It was a spectacular trip. The wrist surgeons said it was one of the worst fractures they had seen for some time, so it gave them the opportunity to demonstrate their expertise. That did not give me much comfort. The trip also provoked a sizeable dose of concussion. Suddenly, my plans for Christmas and the new year were radically amended.

What can one say? There is little amusement in searching for synonyms for stupidity. It is hard to believe how totally idiotic I have been. For the record, this event occurred in mid-morning and I was stone cold sober.