If you think you are clumsy, I am here to make you feel vastly better about yourself. 

I am, without a doubt, one of the most accident-prone human beings to ever walk the earth. Growing up, my childhood was essentially just a series of brief pauses between trips to Accident & Emergency. There was the time I kicked a plastic milk crate and completely lost my small toenail. There was the afternoon I decided to build a garden den, only to have a stray brick drop directly onto my finger. And then, the crown jewel of my youth: my brother jumping onto the opposite side of a seesaw, launching me straight into the stratosphere to land chin-first on cold, hard metal. Cue dad rushing me to A&E for the afternoon. 

You would think I would have developed some basic survival instincts as an adult. I did not. 

Since turning eighteen, I have managed to drop a cast-iron radiator onto my foot, drop a heavy slab of York stone onto the exact same foot, and slip on wet cobbles while walking the dog, resulting in losing the end of another toe. I have also burned myself on pretty much every hot surface in existence—including a rogue splash of Sunday roast gravy that literally took the skin right off my finger as I wiped the gravy away. 

Now, if I am being completely honest with you, a lot of my adult mishaps have shared one common denominator: alcohol. 

But through all the blood, bruises, and hospital visits, I always had one bragging right. I would look at people in plaster casts and think, “Well, at least I’ve never broken a bone.” 

Until Day 2 in Portugal. 

One of my absolute favourite places to visit with my husband is Portugal. We have been tons of times. On this particular trip, Day 1 was a dream. We hit the beach, had a bite to eat, a few drinks, and headed back to the apartment. 

Then came Day 2. We were relaxing by the pool. At noon, my husband looked at me and said, “Drink?” 

“Errr… why not?” I replied. 

I do not think I have to go into much detail here, Linda. The sun was hot, the drinks were flowing, we were having a lovely time, and the hours absolutely flew by. Suddenly, it was dinner time. 

I was desperate to go to one of my favourite spots in the old town to indulge in their amazing piri piri chicken. I quickly got showered and threw on a nice dress. My husband had just bought me some gorgeous new wedge shoes, so I got him to help me fasten them. He pulled those straps nice and tight. I felt fantastic. 

Off we set. Now, my husband is a fast walker, so I was holding onto his arm tightly, trying to keep up. 

Then, it happened. 

Just as we were passing a bar full people sat outside enjoying a relaxing drink, my right foot slipped on a cobble and my ankle completely rolled over. It went so low that the side of my ankle actually smacked against the ground. Luckily for me, my husband was still holding onto my left arm, or I would have eaten the pavement completely. 

God, did I scream. And then I started to cry. Loudly. I have never felt pain like it in my entire life. 

I tried to pull myself together and keep walking. I could not. I tore the new wedges off, stood barefoot on the street, and tried again. Still, no chance. By now, everyone in the street was staring. I was howling in pain, clinging to my poor husband, who was mortally embarrassed by the sheer volume of the noises coming out of me. 

He leaned in and politely whispered, “Can you shut the fuck up?” 

Poor bloke. Everyone was glaring at him like he was a criminal who had just assaulted his wife in broad daylight. 

He somehow managed to hoist me back to the apartment, piled ice onto my ankle, elevated it, and then went out alone to get us a takeaway pizza. He basically spent the rest of the holiday playing nurse. 

I assumed it was just a nasty sprain. It was only when we flew back home and the swelling refused to go down that I started to panic. Four hours later, standing in a freezing British A&E waiting room, the doctor delivered the news. 

I had not just sprained it. I had broken my ankle and completely ripped the tendon. 

I spent the next six weeks hobbling around in the ultimate badge of clumsiness: a massive, ugly black medical boot. It took a trip across Europe, a pair of new wedges, and a few poolside drinks to finally end my streak. 

Listen, Linda—if you are heading to Portugal anytime soon, stick to the flats. Trust me. 

It felt like any other Wednesday. I always took Dad to his hospital appointments, so when my mum handed me a piece of paper with an appointment for a new department that morning, I did not think twice. We chatted in the car about nothing in particular, the radio humming quietly in the background. I parked the car, walked him in, and took my usual seat in the waiting room, pulling out my phone to mindlessly scroll and pass the time. Everything was perfectly, safely normal. 

Until I looked up.

Suddenly, the ordinary room started to feel different. I looked around. There were cancer posters lining the walls. On the coffee table, there was juice and biscuits readily available—the kind of small comfort you do not find in a standard, chaotic waiting room. Then I noticed the people. They were looking at me with “that look.” The heavy, unmistakable look of pity from people who feel sorry for you. 

A cold knot of suspicion formed in my stomach. I pulled out my phone again, but this time I was not scrolling. I texted the lads in my work team, frantically sharing my suspicions, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. 

Before I could process it, the clinic door opened. The nurse walked Dad back out to the waiting room, caught my attention to follow them, there was “that look” again, they walked on out onto the corridor and the nurse casually mentioned, “This will be where you come for your bloods when you come.” 

The words hung heavily in the air. This was not a standard check-up. I followed the nurse and Dad out into the quiet of the corridor, the reality finally crashing through the floorboards. I looked at him—the man who had always been my protector—and the frustration boiled over. 

“Do you want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

I cannot remember his exact words after that. I do not even think he actually said the word “cancer.” When your world shifts on its axis, the specific dialogue gets blurred by the ringing in your ears. What I do remember, clear as day, is the raw defence spitting out of him: “Your mum did not want you to know!” 

Suddenly, the pieces clicked. Mum was not there to defend herself, but I remembered how evasive she had been that morning when I questioned the department we were going to. They had not been trying to lie to me maliciously; they had been trying to shield me. In their eyes, I was still the kid they needed to protect from the dark parts of the world, even though I was the one driving the car. 

The nurse handed Dad a booklet telling him what would happen next, and I snatched it right out of his hand. If they were not going to tell me the truth, I was going to read it myself. I needed to know exactly what we were facing from there. 

The drive back to Mum’s house was a blur of disbelief. We chatted, though I honestly cannot remember about what. It was probably medemanding to know how the hell he thought he was going to get away with not telling me. I was the one taking him for treatment, after all. Did he think I just would not notice the oncology signs? 

But beneath the anger was a wave of pure panic. For weeks, I had been applying for jobs hours away, seriously planning a move up north. If I had not looked up from my phone in that waiting room, I might have packed up my life and left them behind right when they needed me most. 

We walked through their front door, and Mum got the exact same lecture I had just given Dad. I was furious, but it was not out of anger—it was out of terrifying love. I knew exactly why they did it. They did not want me to hurt. They wanted to keep being the strong ones. But looking at them standing there, the illusion was gone. They did not need to protect me from the truth anymore. They needed me.