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Dear Chroniclers,

we interrupt the "365 Photo Galleries" series to bring you breaking news. Literally.

A Walk in the Woods

The early morning sun peeps gently through the shuttered windows of the Tower to summon yours truly from the land of slumber. Downstairs, the hounds of electrofried await their early morning constitutional with the usual eager anticipation.

That is, with the notable exception of Daisy the Retriever, conceivably the laziest dog in all of Christendom. Her idea of exercise extends barely beyond the twice daily rush to consume the contents of her feeding bowl, a task normally completed in a little under ten seconds.

But no matter, hounds are to be walked, so off I set through the gates of the House toward the woods that lie to the south of our estate. And what a cheery morning it is too!

Chance Encounters

A little way into my walk, and I chance upon the scented Mrs Bottomley, wife of the very Reverend, whose humble chapel lies to the far end of the estate. Deep in theological discussion we proceed at a brisk pace into the woods, sundry hounds trailing in our not insubstantial wake.

And it is at this point our conversation is rudely interrupted as I find myself, Alice-like, falling down the rabbit-hole. One moment all is civilised discussion, the next I'm tumbling unceremoniously to the ground accompanied by the sound of what, on first hearing, I take to be a twig snapping beneath my feet.

A Fall from Grace

Somewhat bemused, I come to my senses to discover myself nose first in the leafy debris of the woodland floor. This is not entirely a dignified position in which to land, particularly as Daisy has chosen precisely this moment to descend into position for her morning micturations.

Leaping to my feet, I wince ... to put it mildly.

"Are you alright?" enquires the scented Bottomley.

My reply does not bear repetition, and I shall say several penances in consequence during the weeks to come - but being of a certain generation, I bite my lip and stride out manfully, one foot trailing loosely behind in the leafmold like some malfunctioning rudder. My companion gamely sees me safe back to the electrofried charabanc and I chug off down the back-lanes toward the House.

A Strained Breakfast

My return is greeted with customary disdain by young teenygoth. Pausing only to break the thick crust on top of Cook's legendary turnip-flavoured porridge, she turns to enquire about my most recent fall from grace.

"So what've you done this time, Dad???"

I explain my tumble in the woods, much to her merriment.

"Well, I guess you're going to be great for a three-legged race then!"

is the cruel repost as teenygoth packs her bag, ready for school. Mrs electrofried is more sympathetic and suggests a trip to the hospital to get my foot checked out. But no, being a man it's my honour-bound duty to ignore any possible medical intervention - I decide instead to walk it off.

I'm sure it'll be as right as rain come the evening!"

is my somewhat optimistic pronouncement as I hobble toward the charabanc to make my way into the Horology Factory.

On the Joys of Hospital

Mrs electrofried's advice is, as always, absolutely right. I spend twenty minutes or so of my lunch-break negotiating a hundred yard stretch between the Factory and the sandwich shop, and conclude all may not be well.

The sobering moment of realisation comes half-way across a particularly busy stretch of road adjacent to the shop. I reflect, perhaps a little too late in my journey, that things could get interesting should a car appear at short notice from around the corner travelling at any great speed. The prospect of a lame and startled electrofried rooted to the spot and contemplating his imminent demise bears little appeal.

And so, off to hospital we go, family entourage in tow replete with picnic-basket and a plentiful supply of light reading material. I emerge little over an hour and an half later (a testimony, if one is indeed needed, that the NHS is a national treasure whose value we ignore at our peril), duly plastered.

Foot Up!

So you find me, dear Chroniclers, sat uncomfortably in my bath chair, one foot duly elevated so I can enjoy the dubious pleasure of watching my toes turn a variety of shades of rich plum-purple. The cast will be on for at least a month and I have only the comfort of regular infusions of Horlicks to dull the pain.

Trust all is well with you, as I struggle once more to put my best foot forward,

Yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)