Apart from my visits to the doctor’s on Monday, I have stayed at home this week, not wishing to show my ugly mug to the world.

Several of Tigger’s colleagues, noticing that I did not come to meet her from work, have asked after me, which is kind of them.

I have an appointment tomorrow with a nurse who will presumably repackage my damaged hand and then comes the weekend when I expect we will go out and about as usual.

When I walked in the street on Monday, I felt rather nervous. I kept my gaze on the ground, watching where I put my feet. When I crossed the street, the opposite kerb seemed like a trap waiting to catch my foot and throw me to the ground. I will need to recover the confidence that I can walk about safely.

I have been wondering whether I should take my walking stick with me when I go out but I really don’t think that would have saved me on Saturday. Everything happened too quickly. A walking stick is an encumbrance, too, and I have to remember not to leave it behind when I stop off somewhere. On balance, I don’t think it would serve a useful purpose.

The bags under my eyes have deflated somewhat, mutating into dark patches around the eyes, reminiscent of a raccoon. Progress of a sort.

Despite this, I remain grateful: I am lucky that it was not worse. I will leave it to you to imagine what forms “worse” could have taken as I prefer not to think about it!

I must ask the nurse to make the slimmest dressing possible to enable me more easily to put on a kitchen glove over it. That way I can wash, do household chores and perhaps even take a bath.

An injury like this, minor though it is, reminds us how important are the small transactions of life that we normally perform without thinking until they suddenly become hard or even impossible to do.