Tumbledown

Today

Once again, silly "getting to know you" questionnaires have been circulating on the Internet. I can't resist them and tackle them with enthusiasm. Becky commented on my answer to "What are you most afraid of?", which was: "Apart from dying? Stairs." "Aw", said Becky, "that made me want to give you a hug. Is it true?"

"Oh yes," I said. And it is. When the girls were small and had to be carried downstairs, I regularly had visions of falling down with them in my arms. I often used to say to Paul, "That's one less time I have to do this."

I negotiate stairs with caution and often wonder if I'll meet my end falling downstairs.

In My Day

Our huge Victorian house had a rather grand staircase from the first to the ground floor. There was a slight curve starting from the top and another curve at the bottom as they turned to the lower passageway. There were beautiful cast iron banisters, depicting angel heads, and the whole was overlooked by a stained glass window that cast pools of jewel-like colour onto the hall whenever the sun shone.

It may be one of those memories that gain flesh by being recounted many times, but one day, when I was about three years old, I fell down this flight of stairs. Mamma heard the crash and came running. She knew that she wouldn't reach me before I smashed into the wall before the final turn. She called out to me to grab the banisters. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to do this and my fall towards concussion was halted as I swung to a standstill.

Later, Beatrice, aged about two, fell down the stairs to the basement. These, too, had a curve at the bottom and she crashed into the wall and broke a collar bone. This I remember most clearly, being a witness, and don't know whether it contributed to her epilepsy.

Maybe the memory of these events drives my adult anxiety and visions, but what I don't understand is why I've never seriously considered living in a bungalow.