One of my heroes is Eratosthenes of Cyrene, the Greek philosopher, poet and sometime librarian of the Geat Library of Alexandria. He lived between 276 BC and 194 BC (approximately) and his main claim to fame is a remarkable piece of mathematical work that he performed in 240 BC.

Eratosthenes knew that at noon on the day of the summer solstice (about June 19th), the sun at Syene (modern Aswan) was in the zenith, that is, was directly above the earth so that it left no shadows. Accordingly, he measured the angle of the sun at noon on the day of the solstice at Alexandria and found that the angle it made to the vertical was, as he expressed it, one-fiftieth of a circle (7.2° in modern terminology). This, together with a value for the distance between Alexandria and Syene, enabled the philosopher to calculate the circumference of the earth, being the first recorded person to do so.

Erastosthenes obtained a value of 252,000 stadia for the earth’s circumference. The exact length of the stadion is not known with certainty and there have been arguments among scholars as to how accurate this result was. Moreover, Eratosthenes took the sun’s distance as infinite, meaning that its rays were parallel at all points on the earth’s surface. Also, he rounded up his figures to make calculation easier (they had no electronic calculators in those days!). Depending on your choice of values for the units, his result is in the region of 44,100 km (27,400 mi), which differs from the modern value of 40,008 km or 24,860 mi (meridional circumference) by about 10%, a very creditable result.

What I consider important about this famous piece of scientific investigation is that Eratosthenes worked from direct observation and measurement of the phenomena with which he was dealing and did not rely, as was so often the case in past ages, on scholastic or mystical beliefs about how thing “ought to” be. In other words, he proceeded as a scientist. This is a principle which is still often forgotten or glossed over in our own day by people with some sort of axe to grind.

For example, we are told by some that the earth is flat and that the moon landings were a gigantic hoax or that to immunize your child against infectious diseases is to inject them with poison or that evolution is a spurious theory and only the Biblical account is true. To support these views, they have to assert that scientists are talking nonsense or are engaged in a vast worldwide conspiracy to delude the public.

It always amuses me when such a person assures me that the knowledge set forth by scientists is invented rubbish and then pulls out his mobile phone to take a call, send a text or take a photo. Or recounts some programme that he watched last night on TV. How marvellous it is that invented rubbish can achieve such useful results!

Stories like that of Eratosthenes shine like beacons along the road that humanity has travelled from its obscure beginnings to our own day. The darkness seeks always to encroach and we rely on men and women of genius and courage, like the Greek philosopher, to keep it at bay.

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.

On Sunday I developed bags under the eyes. They are infused with blood and do nothing to enhance my appearance. The hospital had said that I should see my own doctor after a few days but I decided that the sooner I did so, the better it would be, for reassurance if nothing else.

On Monday morning, therefore, I went to the medical practice to see whether I could obtain an appointment, preferably sooner than the usual waiting period which can be from 10 days to two weeks or even longer. Happily, the receptionist was able to arrange for me to see a doctor that very afternoon. How she magicked it, I do not know, but I was duly grateful.

I returned at the appointed hour and was seen by not one but two doctors, a young, and I imagine new, doctor and one of the practice doctors who sat in and observed. As the report filed by the Newham hospital had not yet arrived, I needed to recount my accident in detail and answer many questions about it. This was followed by a physical examination and the making of an appointment on Friday with one of the practice nurses to examine the wound on my hand and rebandage it as necessary.

My question as to when the bandages could be removed was answered only vaguely. Perhaps on Friday the nurse can give me a better estimate.

The problem that remains is that my hand, from the wrist to the base of the fingers, is wrapped in a crepe bandage. This means that I cannot even wash my hands properly or do domestic chores involving water. I had already tried putting on a kitchen glove over the bandage but had desisted when I saw that this inevitably pulled the bandage out of position. This morning I tried again because I had realized that the crepe in fact merely acts as a first line of defence against dirt and knocks whereas the wound is covered with adhesive tape and adhesive patches.

By persevering, I managed to ease the glove onto my hand this time and was then able to have a proper wash.That made me feel a lot better.

Having checked out of the apartment (an operation which consisted of no more than saying goodbye to the young lady on the reception desk), we made our way to the bus stop. A succession of three buses brought us to King’s Cross Station where we took a late breakfast at Leon.

After breakfast we crossed the road to St Pancras International Station where we saw Tigger’s nephew to his train. A final bus ride brought us home.

The outing obviously did not go as intended. Spending Saturday afternoon in A&E was not in the original plan. Apart from that, everything went well.

Docklands is not the most entertaining neighbourhood in London but for someone seeing it for the first time it is not without interest, I suppose. Also it has good connections by bus, tube and DLR with other more stimulating districts.

Shall we stay here again in the future? I think it unlikely but you never know!

I took this photo from the lounge window at 6:15.

It looks the same as the one I took yesterday, I know, but it will do as a souvenir of our short stay in Crossharbour.

The water you see is called the Millwall Inner Dock. It connects, unsurprisingly, to the Millwall Outer Dock. From this projects a narrow strip of water that I imagine once led to the Thames but that connection no longer exists, having been built over.

My hand is less painful today and this permits a certain amount of use though I am careful not bend it too much because there is a wound across the back of my hand that had been taped to close it and I don’t want to disturb it.

The bandage is not waterproof which means that I have to keep it dry. In turn, this means I can wash my hands only in a very summary fashion. Once I am home I can wear a kitchen glove over the bandage when water is involved.

Just to complete the picture, I have a bump the size and shape of half a golf ball on my forehead above the right eye with abrasions to this and to the bridge of my nose which is also slightly swollen. You may be unsurprised to know that I avoid looking at myself in the mirror!

The moral of the story is: don’t go around head-butting the pavement as you will be the one who comes off worse.

Once again, I am going to express my admiration for the NHS and my gratitude to its staff. The emergency room was busy but I was treated carefully, without haste and with kindness at every stage.

In a few minutes, we have to pack and prepare to start back to more familiar parts of London where we shall put Tigger’s nephew on his train before making our own way home to Angel.