That’s right: I HATE STEPS – and I don’t mean the manufactured boy/girl/whatever-H-was pop band of five or six years ago.  No, I hate the concrete going up and down from one level to another kind.

Last night started well enough.  I popped round to a friend’s house and spent a very pleasant hour or so chatting – but then it was time to go home.  I stepped out into the dark, icy wasteland that was my friend’s front garden and gingerly made my way along the frosty path.  All was well until I reached a step down to the gate, and then my feet slid from beneath me.

For a split-second, I could fly.  I lay, horizontal, in the air, gazing up in wonder at the blanket of stars above.  Then, gravity – the swine – kicked in.  I landed hard on the garden path, the small of my back hitting the edge of the step full on.  A bolt of pain shot up and down my back like lightning made of angry hedgehogs and every molecule of breath was squeezed from my lungs.

I remained still for a minute or two, partly so I could gather the courage to try and stand, but also while I pondered just how much surgery would be required to piece my shattered spine back together.  They’d surely have to use so many pins that I wouldn’t be able to walk past the freezer without being fastened to the door like some life-sized fridge magnet.

I eventually scrambled back to my feet and inched my way to the car and home, where I spent the entire night in restless agony.  Bizarrely – there isn’t a single bruise to show as evidence for when I take the weather to court and sue the pants off it.  If weather wears pants, that is.  And they’ll probably be made of clouds anyway and absolutely worthless as compensation.

Maybe I should sue H from Steps instead…