The builder boyfriend has fallen off the roof – and still he won’t see a doctor

The builder boyfriend fell off a roof. He didn’t tell me until he could no longer leave unexplained why he was staggering about the house groaning, crawling up the annoyingly steep cottage stairs we have not been able to alter, and sleeping on the floor beside the bed clutching a packet of anti-inflammatories, as the spaniels slept happily in his space.

His shoulder must be bad, because he allowed me to place an ice pack on it. For him, this was a humiliating foray into the realms of ‘making a fuss’, the sort of thing he fears a bearded hipster might do.

The builder boyfriend likes to think he is invincible. And while he claims he would be happy to go, he says this is unlikely as he has it on good authority that he is going to live for a very long time. ‘You better had,’ I always tell him, ‘because you’ve got to look after me until further notice, remember.’

The last time he injured himself, he didn’t admit anything until months later, and only then because he had to explain why he had gone deaf.

He failed to tell me that he had sustained a concussion when a garage door swung on top of him and knocked him out. Not only that, when he came to a few seconds later and staggered back to his feet, the garage door swung back the other way and knocked him out again.

Having been knocked unconscious twice in the space of a minute, you would have thought he would have had the sense to go to a hospital. But no. That would be making a fuss.

He simply went home, ate his dinner in silence, then said he was going to bed early.