There’s been a hiatus. A long hiatus! Aberdeen was interesting and colourful like a goldfish in a glass bowl, but I was dreaming of the ocean and lacked the inspiration to write. Things happened but things didn’t really happen, either. But now… now I’m living in London and things have the wonderful promise of happening, all the time.
The first thing that happened, happened last night.
I sat in my new bedroom, which was so white and clean it sort of felt like a budget hotel room in heaven. I’d spent all day running to various local supermarkets, picking up food and linens and other necessities, and now I was back in my apartment, alone. The sun was setting, changing the bright blue sky to a soft violet, and I was suddenly gripped with a plan to go to the river and take photographs. I stuffed my camera in my backpack and headed out.
The bus wound through Bermondsey streets before taking me straight to the mouth of Tower Bridge. The air was warm, tourists were standing about with cameras and phones raised to the fading sun. I joined in. It was a perfect solitary evening activity, a small exploration that I could treat myself with. I wandered alone through the crowd, taking the steps down to the river walk and making my way along the cobbles. I passed through streets and lanes, deciding to try and walk over to the Houses of Parliament, but the more I walked, the more London got to me. I was hungry, and tired, and feeling a bit of panic as I kept going, kept going but couldn’t seem to find a map or tube station or turning… at one point I was walking through an empty corridor, some back passage beside the river. I hastened up a stairwell and found myself on London Bridge, still miles away from Big Ben. I decided to call it a night and found myself a bus home.
It was hot on the bus. I took off my jumper and tried to keep my hands still. Sitting at the top of the double decker, I had a view of the neighbourhoods we drove through, all becoming more familiar with each journey I took through them. I just wanted to get home. Soon I started to see my area: the gym, the church, the fire station. I pressed the button and stood up, balancing myself as I started to make my way down the stairs. The bus was pulling in, and on the last few steps I was caught by an unexpected jolt. My feet weren’t underneath me anymore, and I tried to grab the banister but felt only air, hitting the side of the stairs before slamming into the ground, my ankle crumpling underneath my weight at an unnerving angle. I felt the floor of the bus with my hands, trying to sit myself up. There were two older ladies, shopping bags in hand, who looked down at me with concern. Are you okay? Are you okay? I think so…
The bus stopped. “Are you alright?” I heard from the driver’s seat. I couldn’t tell. I was shaking but everything seemed to be okay, I thought it was okay, I didn’t really know… and then the sounds of the bus started to fade and a familiar, horrible ringing bored its way into my skull. I dipped my head down as low as I could to stop myself passing out. I could hear the bus driver saying he’d pull in to the next stop, just a little way along the road. It was a long drive. All I could do was try to focus on the speckled pattern of the floor, feeling the world around me become more and more mute as the blood rushed from my head to my ankle, growing more painful by the minute.
We pulled in. The passengers stepped over me to get out and wait for the next bus to arrive. A couple of women asked if I was alright, one gave me her bottle of water. I smiled and tried to look like I was fine — for what use I don’t know, because I wasn’t feeling fine at all — now patiently waiting for whatever was going to happen next. The bus driver made some calls and told me that the police and medical services would be on their way soon.
They didn’t come soon. I interlaced my fingers under my right thigh, holding my leg up a little so I didn’t have to put as much weight on the injured foot. I could feel the pain running all the way up my leg. The driver told me it wasn’t broken, because I’d be crying if it was. It would be swollen if it was. Still, it hurt. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. Some welcome to London, I thought, sitting on the bottom of this double decker bus, nine o’ clock in the evening.
“Do you have anyone you need to call?” the driver asked me eventually. I wondered who to get in touch with. My flatmate was at work. My family didn’t live here. All of my friends were either working or on the other side of the river. At the sudden realisation that I really had no-one that I needed to call, I started to feel the back of my throat close up.
The medics called the bus driver and had him pass the phone to me. They asked me to tell them how it was. They asked me to try standing up, to try walking. This I could sort-of do. Sort-of. As I hobbled from the back of the bus to the front again, the police showed up. They were three jovial men who I’m pretty sure you could have written as protagonists to some feel-good, buddy cop show. One of them spoke to me and asked how my ankle was. I tried to answer without my voice breaking, which was proving to be ridiculously difficult, and I stared fixedly at the floor as I told him how it happened.
After questions were answered and reports were written, the head constable said to his colleagues, “let’s give this lady a lift home.” And that’s how I ended up in the back of a police car on my second day in London. We drove the short distance to my apartment, the car moving swiftly through the eastern streets. As I chatted to the policemen, it sort of felt like this was my McLovin moment, except I wasn’t on my way to a party, I was on my way to an empty apartment. With a bad ankle.
I hobbled in the door and locked it behind me. I called my mum. I cried. I was shocked and tired and now I had to somehow make myself food and get myself upstairs and elevate my leg and put some ice on it and everything just seemed horrible. I organised myself and ended up on my bed with my foot on a couple of towels, cushioned by a bag of Tescos frozen mixed vegetables. It wasn’t feeling any better, it was feeling worse and worse.
I spent the rest of the night lying on my bed eating chocolate, trying to rally some sympathy from friends, and crawling or scooting through my two-storey house (trying not to crawl on my bruised knee, because that got a beating too). The most comical and sad moment was definitely as I managed to get a cup of tea up stairs while carrying a chocolate bar and a packet of ibuprofen in my mouth. It took a lot of patience.
And today I went to the hospital. Nothing bad, just a sprain. More Tescos veg and ibuprofen, apparently. Rest it up. So, that’s what I’ve been doing today. Welcome to London! Needless to say I'm not really feeling it at the moment, but even when I was sitting on the bus, my head drooping and my ears ringing, I could hear a little voice saying, “hey, this would be good for the blog!”
It only took a sprained ankle to get me back here! Right... what's next?
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