On Saturday, 9 March 1991, I had a great fall. I think I'd been heading for it for a year or two – rushing endlessly and never quite catching up. I was just back home from the Section for the Psychiatry of Old Age's meeting in Chester. I hurried downstairs and lost my footing. My right leg shot suddenly down seven or eight stairs, leaving the left behind; I didn't even make the bottom of the staircase. The pain, swelling and distortion clearly indicated something more than a sprain. My first thought was of my appointments diary, crammed for the next two months. My second was “I hope I don't get a DVT!”
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