I leapt out of bed this morning, elated at the thought of another whole day off work, then decided to let myself fall luxuriantly backwards onto the bed. Of course I misjudged it, and took a flying header into the corner of the bedside table. The blood, the blood! So I had to walk the dog in a baseball cap stuffed with ice cubes, probably looking like a walking tumour but at my age nobody notices you in the street anyway.
The partner suggested I might need stitches. I can cut my own hair with mirrors. How much harder can it be to sew up the back of your own head?