The world has finally stopped spinning, with the aid of much bed rest, ibuprofen and brandy.

Reluctantly (because I am highly suspicious of doctors, having a particularly alarming example in the family) I dragged myself to the local surgery on my husband's insistence, because I was being "more incoherent and sleepy than usual". Where would we be without our loved ones, eh? I saw a young German lady GP-in-training who had not yet had her sense of compassion and interest in poorly people beaten out of her by years in the NHS.  She was very nice, and looked genuinely shocked when I told her that, after tumble no.2, I then got on yet again and proceeded to hunt and jump for the next four hours, of which exploits I had only the blurriest of recollections. Apparently I should have gone home. Ooops.

I was diagnosed with mild concussion, a relief as it meant that a) the state of ditz will eventually pass, I am not going doolally just yet and b) I was allowed, in fact positively encouraged, to spend extra time in bed. Also, it is no mean consolation to find that my second tumble was quite probably the result of  being concussed and still dizzy from my first, rather than 100% sheer incompetence. I shall be telling myself that when I'm next eyeing up a jump on the VLM.