So yesterday, I was attempting to navigate home after the pub with my boss, and we’d basically lost London at this point. There were buildings, and people, and I could see a Pret and a Starbucks. So I dug out my phone and asked it where Moorgate was, and it said over there, and I walked a bit over there, and said “Hey look, Moorgate station”, while walking towards it.

Actually, what I said was, “Hey look, Moorg” and discovered that the road in front of me was, instead, air. Or stair.

One of the side effects of the events prior to finding Moorgate station, mostly involving some delightful beer, did not have a positive effect on my ability to coordinate a well-orchestrated landing.

Anyway, in the time following:

  • I wasn’t distracted by a nice pair of legs, a bag with olive oil in it, or relevant pseudopodia, so I did not master flight.
  • My phone flew off on its own adventures, where despite *many* Serious Talks, it decided to try crack.
  • My glasses, lacking a reasonable escape route from the ground, decided to investigate with tunneling through my brow. This is where most of the blood came from.
  • My knee decided that if anyone was going to win the race for the ground, it would be it, and fulfilled its wildest ambitions in that regard. Thankfully, it has not been swayed by the peer pressure of my phone, and did not also experiment with crack.
  • With the assistance of my boss – did I mention this is the first time I’ve gone out after work with my new colleagues? I’m doing well with impressions – I got back to Oxford and a lift home.
  • Having got home, the natural pain-killers wore off and my knee expressed its dissatisfaction with our collective life choices.
  • Today I am working from home, my knee now only hurts if I do something stupid, like move.
  • In conclusion, I believe that pavements in London should be better padded, and warning signs and possibly barriers should be placed before drops of up to six inches.

I am, or will be, fine.