Peter Bromhead: A sleepy fall

Illustration / Peter Bromhead

When I fell out of bed, the caregiver, aroused from slumber, was only mildly sympathetic.

"That's the first time that's happened since I was a youngster," I mumbled, slowly picking myself up from the floor.

"If it happens again we'll have to consider buying you a geriatric cot with pull-up sides," she murmured before dozing off again.

"I trust you're being droll," I snapped back, finding her retort more painful than the fall.

To a man who has enjoyed his fair share of pillow talk with the opposite sex, introducing the term "geriatric" into a boudoir conversation is hardly likely to comfort my misguided belief that I'm still hanging on to the trappings of manhood.

The following morning, I discovered the power sockets in the wall had ceased functioning.

Apparently, when I fell I knocked over a glass of water, saturating a bedside socket.

"I could have electrocuted myself!" I wailed to an uninterested audience at the breakfast table.

Finally, my 9 year old raised his head briefly from his engrossment with Minecraft to ask, "Is it true you fell out of bed last night, Dad?"

"Nothing serious," I assured him.

"You'll be needing a walking stick next," he responded with a smirk, returning to more serious matters on his mobile.

"A walking stick!" I exploded. "I'm not totally over the hill yet." I retreated behind the newspaper.

The caregiver, sensing a wounded bull on her hands, wasted no time in sticking another lance into my side. "He's already got a walking stick, hanging in the garage," she said. "It's next to his garden kneeler, which he needs these days when weeding flower beds."

"That so-called walking stick is a memento from a famous international cartoonist," I protested.

"It's a modern door handle joined on to a stick - it's a sort of joke architectural pun.

"More importantly, it's purely coincidence that it's hanging next to the garden kneeler," I retorted darkly, recalling that when I purchased this useful garden aid, the caregiver had waspishly suggested, with a wagging finger, "one step away from a walker."

Sensing it was time to exit from further harassment, I gruffly announced I was off to see a dealer about purchasing a ute truck.

"Make sure it's a model that you can easily trade on a mobility scooter sometime soon," retorted the caregiver.