MONTHLY BLOG 187, A YEAR OF POEMS: LEARNING TO WALK AGAIN

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‘WHENEVER I WALK IN A LONDON STREET,

I’M EVER SO CAREFUL TO WATCH MY FEET … ‘

‘Whenever I walk in a London street,
I’m ever so careful to watch my feet,
And I keep in the squares,
And the masses of bears
Who wait at the corner all ready to eat
The sillies who tread on the lines of the street,
Go back to their lairs,
And I say to them: “Bears!
Just look how I’m walking in all the squares!”’
A.A. Milnes Lines & Squares (1924).
Illus. by E,A, Shepard for volume of poems by
A.A. Milne, When We Were Very Young (1924)

LEARNING TO WALK AGAIN

I should start by clarifying! Yes, I am still walking! I am not bed-ridden; nor am I confined to a wheel-chair. Nonetheless, I am watching my feet very carefully, which put me in mind of this poem by A.A. Milne1 (above) which I loved in childhood.

At the end of last year, I had a bad fall, which left me slightly concussed. A subsequent hospital check-up revealed no broken bones or permanent harm done. Yet I found that I was reluctant to go on long walks again (which I had always loved) and that my confidence on even short walks was much shaken.

After some months of torpor, I reconnected with a brilliant osteopath who had helped me many years earlier. He immediately did wonders. At one point, whilst he was manipulating my spine, I cried out – not in pain but in surprise. I felt something loosen significantly. It was at the junction of my spine and pelvis. And when I next did a medium-length walk, I was positively amazed. I was able to swing my hips and to walk properly. It was how I used to walk in my youth!

So great was my surprise and pleasure that, upon my return home, I left a joyous message of thanks and congratulations on the osteopath’s answerphone. But the story did not prove to be so simple. Some days, when I go on my habitual morning walk, everything clicks into place. Head up, I stride ahead confidently.

Alas, however, on other days, the muscles in my thighs and haunches ache wretchedly. I have to concentrate on every step. Outwardly, I look as though I am walking tolerably well (though sometimes I am rather too bent over). But, inwardly, I am in considerable discomfort and reminding myself with every step how to move, how to hold my head up, and how to swing my hips.

What’s more, I never know each day whether walking is going to be easy or difficult. I think that the root cause is that my muscles had got out of the habit of regular exercise and need basic retraining. So I tell myself that I am, in effect, learning to walk again. And just as it takes babies several months of toddling to get completely accustomed to independent motion, so I expect that it will also take me a few months to get back into the regular routine.

One result of this retraining is that now I often gaze at other people walking around. A small number do also seem to be having difficulties. I sympathise! Yet the great majority are just striding around nonchalantly, as though walking is as natural as breathing. I look at them admiringly, with a tinge of envy. But, with a few months of retraining, I will be walking around like them!

Meanwhile, I gaze intently at the ground before me. It’s too easy to trip on a tree root or a broken paving-stone. And as I watch where I put my feet, I am playing once more the childhood game that so amused me and my siblings. We called it ‘Bears and Squares’ and we tried not only to walk within the squares of the paving-stones but also not to tread on any line or crack at all.

Playing this game as an adult makes me super-aware of the state of Wandsworth’s paving. Some roads have been recently repaved – and they are a joy for pedestrians. Other pavements are so full of cracks that it’s not possible to walk without putting a foot on at least some of them.

By the way, why do some paving-stones end up so cracked?2 Do cars, vans and lorries drive onto pavements (accidentally or otherwise) and cause damage? Yet some paving-stones are protected from marauding traffic by railings or by lamp-posts … and are still cracked.

It’s a mystery. But in the meantime, I’m still watching my feet when walking the London streets. I’m still jumping over cracks to baffle the bears. And, happily, I’m learning to walk properly again!

ENDNOTES:

1 Alan Alexander Milne (1882-1956), When We Were Very Young (1924); and for context, see J.C. Wheeler, A.A. Milne (2004).

2 The capacity of paving-stones to bear weights depends also upon how stable is the base upon which the stones are laid. For full analysis, see F.M. Hueston, The Complete Exterior Stone Trouble-Shooting Manual: A Professional Guide.

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MONTHLY BLOG 186, A YEAR OF POEMS: ‘I SIT THIS MORNING AT MY DESK’

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PJC-2026-09-No186-Tidy-Desk

‘‘I sit this morning at my desk,
like writers long before me,
trying to decide
to read or to write,
or to simply sit here,
staring at the page’ …


A Poet’s Journey (2026)

Image © Dreamstime 2026

After delightful and thought-provoking visits to Brazil and (separately) to Paris in May/June this year,1 it was a pleasure also to return home. Both Tony and I had to deal immediately with massive email mountains of business that had been postponed while we were overseas. And we both had writing commitments to complete to urgent deadlines.

So it was back to the writing-desk. That destination would not be such fun, if that was all that we had to do, year-in, year-out. But, after a period of travel, it was positively soothing to be back at one’s personal grindstone.

Bob Metevier’s poem, A Poet’s Journey (quoted above) catches the open-endedness of sitting at one’s desk. Should the next task be to read? Or to write? Or simply to sit, staring at the blank page (or screen, in today’s technology)??

Over the years, I have known all three of those responses. Once (many years ago) I had a bad period of writer’s block, which really unnerved me. However, I am pleased to record that, since then, I have learned to sustain a regular flow of research-plus-writing. So these days I don’t simply sit and stare at a blank screen.

One secret for sustaining my writing productivity is to be happy with one’s desk-space. It can be utterly depressing if the desk is located in a room that one dislikes, and is kept in a state that makes one feel uncomfortable.

My desk-space is therefore personally organised to suit my preferences. I keep the main writing desk scrupulously tidy. (Each to his or her own!) And, close at hand, I have a large work-table, where I can stack all my working papers, notes and books – as tidily or untidily as I please. Then to focus my attention at the start of each work session, I place on the writing desk all the relevant documentation for the immediate task in hand. That way, I know my priorities – and I stick with them.

A further element that greatly improved my working environment was organised a few years ago when my eyesight considerably worsened. My desk and keyboard are located in front of a fairly big window. Hence the light coming into the room was constantly varying, as the sun rose and set, while clouds hurried or crawled across the sky. Increasingly, however, my deteriorating eye-sight was being disturbed by the ever-fluctuating light.

To remedy matters, I got a handyman to install a dark blind across the window and a low-hanging light directly above the desk. That way, I sit and work in a little pool of constant lighting. It’s great for my concentration.

I can therefore record that I daily sit happily at my desk. It would not be so much fun if that was all I had to do in life. But it’s not. It’s something that I freely choose to do, amidst my other commitments. And I cross my fingers that the writing muse will long stay with me, as I sit each morning at my desk …

ENDNOTES:

1 For further details, see PJC BLOG/185 (July 2026).

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MONTHLY BLOG 185, RETURNING FROM TRAVELS OVERSEAS

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‘Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
’Robert Louis Stevenson (c.1884)
[Image: istock 2026]

It’s fun returning to BLOG again after a pause for travel overseas. So the logical theme for this month’s commentary is the fun of travel overseas – and the equally great fun of returning home. Our cats, after an initial aloof moment (‘Where have you been?’) gave us a great welcome; and we purred warmly in reply.

Visiting Brazil in May/June 2026 was a total experience. And the first thing to record is how friendly, welcoming and lively were all our encounters with Brazilians (excluding only one bad experience, noted briefly below). We started the visit in Rio, which is an amazing city on an amazing site.1 On our final evening in Rio, we took the lift to the very top of the famous Sugarloaf Mountain – and enjoyed not only a magical sunset but also a superb view of the great bay in which Rio is sited and the surrounding mountains.

Brazil is a fast-developing country, with signs of growth and change everywhere. Some of the sharp contrasts between wealth and poverty certainly gave us pause for thought. The poor ‘favelas’ [shanty-town slums] indicate the continuing extent of urban deprivation and make the case for structural reforms. So do the collapsing pavements and sidewalks in the Brazilian cities. A systematic programme of repaving is well overdue.

At the same time, there are great wonders to be seen and unequivocally enjoyed. We marvelled at the fantastic Iguazu Falls, which are among the grandest waterfalls to be seen anywhere in the world.2 Happily, we were there on a sunny day and the ubiquitous spray from all the falling water meant that everywhere we looked there were rainbows, both large and small! We were so happy that we did not bother to hunt for the proverbial pots of gold at the rainbow’s end … [See photo Iguazu Falls © Tony Belton 2026]


Another great experience was provided by our short trip to Ilya Grande – an island south of Rio that has banned all motor traffic from its streets. It’s a magical experience to stroll round an entire urban area with no traffic to dodge, other than people on bicycles and a few on horseback. Life without the motor-car was so utterly tranquil that we quite lost track of the days and hours. Dreamy!

We did have one Conference on Eighteenth-Century History to attend, which was a great success. The commitment and knowledge of our Brazilian colleagues was impressive; and we had lots of stimulating exchanges. The Congress met at Belo Horizonte, which is in the heart of the Brazilian mining region. Aptly enough, therefore the organisers took us all on an excursion to view an intact eighteenth-century mining town. Ouro Preto is now listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site – and rightly so!3 Its steep hillsides are covered in cobblestone streets, and lined with magnificent Baroque buildings, including churches, palaces, and museums, with present-day restaurants and bars as well. The only response is: WOW!

Leaving Brazil was a moment of sadness. Another bonus to record was the great food and wine. And the only downside: a bad encounter with a desperate man, when we inadvertently walked from a tourist area in Belo Horizonte into a poorer part of town. The desperate man prowled around us – literally. And he then jumped forward and snatched our sunglasses from our heads. Well, he did not get anything of value. And he did not hurt us. Two local men came to our aid and called the police, who promptly gave us a free ride back to our hotel. So the encounter ended as a demonstration of Brazilian goodwill – and we thank our helpers wholeheartedly!

After that, we got home, greeted the cats, slept deeply – and then left for another Conference in Paris. It was a distinctly abrupt turn-around. Happily, the Conference in Paris – also on eighteenth-century history – was another great success. We met many friends, old and new. And we had time to explore Paris again – a great world-city that we both love. Then it was home again – ready to be greeted by the cats – and to catch up with mountains of postponed business. Travelling is great and so is returning after travels. To paraphrase Stevenson: ‘Home are the travellers, home to climb their personal email mountains’.

ENDNOTES:

1 See for stimulating accounts: O. Morton, Rio: The Story of the Marvellous City (2015); and B. McCann, Ten Moments that Shaped Rio de Janeiro (2025).

2 For details, see https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iguazu_Falls.

3 Expert guidance is offered in the following website: https://artsandculture.google.com/story/pgUhKzLZOMHvKg.

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MONTHLY BLOG 184, THE MOON – FAMILIAR FRIEND OR LONELY STRANGER?

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‘The Moon has a face like the clock in the hall;
She shines on thieves on the garden wall,
On streets and fields and harbour quays,
And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees …’Robert Louis Stevenson (1885)

One cold, crisp, cloudless night recently revealed a massive silver Moon, looking down impartially upon the sprawling metropolis of London. Everything looked superbly wonderful in its gleaming light. I greatly enjoyed the spectacle.

What’s more, the Moon did appear to have a familiar face, reminding me of our childish belief that the lunar contours did indeed portray the ‘Man in the Moon’.

Robert Louis Stevenson’s poem (quoted above) captures that sense of familiarity. ‘The Moon has a face like the clock in the hall’. And the poem continues to salute both the night-life that routinely flourishes under the light of the Moon, even while children and flowers ‘close their eyes’ until daylight.

But I equally love the alternative vision that sees the Moon, not as a familiar friend, but as a lonely stranger. Here the seminal poem is that by Percy Bysshe Shelley (published posthumously, 1822).

It addresses a question directly ‘To the Moon’, which is viewed as a lonely and elusive celestial wanderer:

‘Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, —
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?’

The beauty of the poem is so haunting that I capitulate entirely. The Moon is not only a familiar friend, but is also a forlorn solitary object, ‘wandering companionless’ through the skies. Nothing can hold its interest. Its eye is permanently joyless.

From that point of view, the intermittent human ‘race for the Moon’ is an appalling intrusion into the space of Planet Earth’s nearest neighbour. It does not intrude into human life, even though, on clear nights, it does throw a cold silvery light upon our nocturnal doings.

There are far more poems about the Moon than I have ever read … or will find time to read.1 But they all acknowledge that it’s a major fixture – even if an enigmatic moving fixture – in the close environs of Planet Earth. So it must be treated with due respect. The Moon, whether familiar or lonely – is not a toy; not a reservoir of raw materials to be used by some humans and kept from others; not a potential military base; and certainly not a potential battle-ground or killing-field.2

Global citizens have a global interest in respecting the Moon as an integral feature of global existence. It is inescapably wedded to our Planet. The Moon does not belong to anyone. But it does share its celestial journeys intimately with us all. The Moon, in all its beauty, is the ‘familiar stranger’ that is known to all humanity. And long may it flourish as such!

ENDNOTES:

1 See various options within helpful websites:  https://poets.org/poems-about-moon and https://www.poemhunter.com/poems/moon (viewed 30 March 2026).

2 See e.g. essays in Melanie Vandenbrouck, Megan Barford, Louise Devoy and Richard Dunn (eds), The Moon: A Celebration of our Celestial Neighbour (2019); O. Morton, The Moon: A History for the Future (2019); and M. Shindell (ed.), with D. Sobel, Lunar: A History of the Moon in Myths, Maps and Matter (2024).

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MONTHLY BLOG 183, HICKORY DICKORY DOCK! IN MEMORY OF MY LATE BROTHER JULIAN, OUR HAPPY CHILDHOOD TOGETHER, AND HIS LIFELONG SENSE OF DROLL HUMOUR

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Fig.1. ‘Hickory Dickory Dock!’ – classic nursery rhyme:

‘Hickory Dickory Dock!
The mouse ran up the clock.
The clock struck one!
The mouse ran down …
Hickory Dickory Dock!’

Hickory Dickory Dock! My late brother, Julian Corfield, who died on 1 January 2026 at the age of 77, loved clocks. So this is the rhyme that I choose to introduce my memories of him – not that I ever remember seeing a mouse on any of his clocks. (But that’s borrowing too much from Julian’s own literalism! … It’s totally childish song that infallibly reminds me of our happy childhood together).

Julian, also known as Jules, Julo, and (when we were very young) as Julie, was immensely consistent throughout his life. He was serious-minded, clever, meticulous, and focused. He loved mathematics, chess and precise music (eg. anything by Bach). He was personally reserved and reticent; and, as an adult, he spent long times on his own, content with his own company. At the same time, Jules was also kind, considerate, decent-minded, gentle, and caring. He worked well with others, and enjoyed the companionship of his colleagues and former students at the School where he taught maths; his friends in his chess club; his fellow workers in the charity Southend Age Concern; and his neighbours in St John’s Court.1

Above all, too, Julian had a droll and dry sense of humour, which initially could take people by surprise. He did not look like the sort of person who was constantly cracking jokes. (And his jokes were certainly not bawdy. Nor were they sardonic or hostile). But Jules could always see the funny side of life’s ups and downs – and manage to laugh, however dryly. He also loved shared jokes and shared catch-phrases, at which he could laugh knowingly with others.

My own shared joke-phrase with him was ‘Pawn to King4’, which is a classic opening move in chess.  Goodness knowns when and how this little sort-of-joke originated, But it remained our little joke-phrase. Therefore, whenever I phoned him, I would greet him: ‘Hello, Jules: Pawn to King4’, so that he knew immediately which sister was now plaguing him. And whenever, by phone or mail, I varied this phrase, by suggesting some other opening gambit, then Jules would instantly tell me, or send me an email, to let me know how much danger my pawn was in – and how many moves it would take for him to check-mate me. (I’m not a chess-player myself but I quickly learned which opening moves to avoid!)

One thing that always impressed me was how well Jules got on with the brother who came between the two of us in age. He was Adrian, usually known as Ady, who, sadly, died at the age of 44. The two of them could not have been more different. Adrian was out-going, gregarious, hating to be alone. Jules was the reverse. Adrian was very clever, but slapdash and casual about any task he was set. Julian – also very clever – was totally meticulous about everything he did. Adrian, as an adult, had a sequence of feisty girl-friends; and he loved passionately. By contrast, Julian was celibate by choice.

Yet, as kids, the two brothers – just two years apart by age – always got on very well and played happily together. Perhaps they appreciated their mutual ‘otherness’. As they got older, Julian did seek his own quiet space, away from Adrian, who was always restless and ‘on the go’. Yet that did not detract from their mutual affection, which was based on long familiarity. And certainly, when we heard of Ady’s death, Julian displayed the greatest distress and anguish that I have ever seen from him, throughout his life. (I was also distraught – and we shared our grief together).

Fig.2

A fine recent photo of
Julian Corfield (2025),
shared with the Corfield family by
a young Southend friend,
Olivia Holbrook-Morris

A final anecdote, which became a family classic. Jules, by the way, always disputed the details of this story. But I was a witness and I’m pretty confident that it’s correct. The context was an early morning Sunday ritual, when we kids went into the parental bedroom and shared a family snuggle, all of us together in or on the big bed. These were always happy times for us all. Our father made up amusing stories to recount to us; and he played silly games with us, such as tossing us up and down in the blankets. Meanwhile, our mother smiled benignly, and enjoyed the pot of tea that I (as the oldest child) brought up for them, as soon as I was old enough to be entrusted with the task. It was her special Sunday morning treat. Usually, she was the busy one, rushing around to look after us all. But on Sunday mornings, she savoured her tea in bed, whilst all the family sat close by, smiling at her!

Anyway, at some point on one Sunday morning our father asked Julian if he would turn on the taps to run him a bath. Julian unhesitatingly left for the nearby bathroom and came back reporting that he had obeyed. It was a big, deep, old-fashioned bathtub that would not fill instantly. So some slow moments passed before our father asked Julian to check whether the bathtub was full. He came back, saying: No. Two further trips followed, each time Julian returning with another negative verdict.

Finally, our exasperated father asked just how much water was in the both?. None replied Julian. And when the paterfamilias gave every sign of exploding with incredulity and wrath, Julian explained, simply: ‘Well, you said: turn on the taps! You didn’t say: put the plug in’.

What a triumph for Julian’s literalism! Was he doing it because that is how he copes with the world? Or was he being sly, in effect teaching our father the perils of not being fully explicit? Julian was aged about nine or ten at the time. I am sure that he was just being himself – that is, totally literal-minded – and certainly not consciously seeking to annoy. That was not his style! Eventually, our father, who was usually quick to laugh, was persuaded to see the funny side … and the story became a family classic. What’s more, it remains a testament to the quietly quirky individualism that Julian maintained, unbrokenly, all his life! Julian Corfield: RIP. [And Pawn to K4].

ENDNOTES:

1 It’s a great pleasure to acknowledge here the warmth and positive input from the fifty or so friends from Southend, who came to our local commemoration of Julian’s life. The event was held on Saturday 7 February 2026, at the Westcliff Hotel, Westcliff Parade, Southend. We started with an informal buffet lunch and then proceeded to an Open Session, when anyone who wished was welcome to stand up and share with us their thoughts and feelings about Julian. There was absolutely no shortage of speakers. And the outcome was truly moving. There was no doubt that we were all talking about the same unassuming, modest person, who was so widely loved and appreciated. He was a reticent person. But Julian lived not in isolation but within many networks of true friendships.

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MONTHLY BLOG 182, TO LAUGH OR CRY? RESPONDING TO ACADEMIC CRITICISMS

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Fig.1. Laugh or Cry – song lyrics by Roger Taylor (1981):

‘You just gotta laugh or cry
Right till the day you die.
Just open up your heart,
Or open up your eyes …
Laugh or cry!’

A few days ago, I had the strange experience of hearing my life’s work dissected by a panel of critical experts, in front of a large and knowledgeable audience, and in my presence. I was part thrilled, part gobsmacked. The speakers were excellent – incisive and thoughtful. Hearing my work put into the historical context of the evolution of History as a research subject was also salutary.

The whole experience has given me much to think about. One striking theme is the relationship of academics to debate and criticism. Of course, the world of academe is not the only one that thrives upon continual arguments. Politicians, for example, have to become quickly accustomed to debates on all sides. They regularly argue not only with rivals in other political parties but also with colleagues within their own. And they may too be assailed on all sides by the general public.

So academics are not unique. But they have an interesting double relationship with assessment. They themselves are constant assessors. They regularly have piles of students’ essays to mark, as well as occasional examination scripts. Many academics also review new books, whether in published journals or in confidential pre-publication assessments for publishers. The task requires giving an objective summary of each book’s contents plus a favourable or critical response, as appropriate. And it goes on: when listening to lectures, academics try to be ready with at least one pertinent question – again, favourable or hostile, according to taste.

Simultaneously, however, academics are also on the receiving end of a constant stream of criticism. If they seek to publish a book or an essay (and the pressures to publish are these days very great), academics get a double whammy of debate. Before a book or essay is accepted for publication, it goes to anonymous readers (usually fellow academics) for prior assessment. Then, once past that potential barrier, published books and essays are often publicly reviewed in print – sometimes by more than one critical colleague. Such assessments can again be either favourable or hostile. And the barrage of responses can continue for a long period.

Meanwhile, all academics are subject to yearly internal reviews. Many institutions regularly survey student opinion about the skills and abilities of their lecturers. And academic promotion generally depends upon getting good reports not only for teaching but also for publishing well-received books and essays in sufficient quantity.

Without doubt, the old days of the doddering don, who did absolutely nothing whilst enjoying the status of being an eminent professor, have long gone.

As a result, academics live in a permanent atmosphere of potential criticism – which they both give and receive. It all helps to brace the intellect. Indeed, really good criticism can ultimately be very helpful – particularly it if arrives before the research work in question has got into print. An accurate critique, phrased tactfully, allows academics to clarify and/or to sharpen the expression of their thoughts; to remove inconsistencies; to strengthen (or perhaps to adapt) their arguments; and, if need be, to insert a rousing defence of their case against fundamental objections.

In all, to repeat a phrase: it’s bracing. Whether a given individual’s response is to laugh or to cry is a matter for personal judgment. Pointed criticisms, if they are really spot-on, can be taken badly. Colleagues sometimes cry or sulk; and refuse to continue with any further revisions of their work. (Mistakenly).

Anonymous criticisms in particular are supposed to be worded kindly, even if critically. Every now and then, however, assessors get carried away by the cloak of anonymity. They launch into personal attacks, alongside the criticisms. But all assessments, whether anonymous or otherwise, are supposed to be couched in impartial and objective terms. So if, every now and then, someone takes unfair advantage of the system of anonymity, much the best response is to ignore it completely. Laugh it off!

(By the way, anyone seeking an audit of their own personal behaviour should talk to a frank but trusty friend, who can deliver home truths constructively).

All in all, living in a bracing barrage of potential criticism is something that I personally enjoy. As a research student, I was influenced by two doughty arguers. One was the social/cultural historian, E.P, Thompson;1 and the other my PhD supervisor at the LSE, F.J. Fisher, who was an expert in London economic history.2

With each one of these two masters of dialectics, I engaged in lengthy and searching debates. And, gradually, I learned to hold my own – though I don’t think that, in either case, I ever delivered an intellectually knock-out blow.

To laugh or cry at pointed criticisms? First of all, don’t cry. It drives one into loops of negativism and does not improve the work in question. So laugh instead. Laugh because someone cared sufficiently to engage with your work. And, simultaneously, don’t ignore the criticisms. They may not always be right. But they challenge the recipients to assess for themselves. Then, if needed, corrections can be made. And, if corrections are not needed, then a rousing defence of the core argument can be inserted instead. Academic debates can be both fun and fruitful. Laugh loudly; and keep the debates going – without personal abuse – but with the critical intellect fully engaged!

ENDNOTES:

1 See P.J.C., ‘E.P. Thompson, The Historian\: An Appreciation’, first pub. in New Left Review, 201 (1993), pp. 10-17; and in slightly amplified text (2018) in PJC website: https://www.penelopejcorfield.com/history-making/fellow-historians/6.3.5 PDF45.

2 See P.J.C., ‘F.J. Fisher (1908-88) and the Dialectic of Economic History’, first pub. in P.J. Corfield and N.B. Harte (eds), London and the English Economy, 1500-1700: Essays by F.J. Fisher (London, 1990), pp. 3-22; and in shorter and punchier text (2018) in PJC website: https://www.penelopejcorfield.com/history-making/fellow-historians/6.3.1 PDF46.

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MONTHLY BLOG 181, A YEAR OF POEMS

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Fig.1. Rudbeckia Birta –

flower commonly known as ‘Black-Eyed Susan’

1st January 2026: I’m now recovering from a spectacular black-eye, caused by falling down stairs at home, when hurrying and carrying a tray – so being unable to put my hands out to break fall. As I plummeted downwards, I felt a surge of extreme annoyance: annoyance at having to miss that evening’s party with friends; annoyance at putting everything on the tray at risk, including a smart china teapot (which broke, irretrievably); and, especially, acute annoyance at the vivid sensation of my own life and limbs being beyond my control.

Philosophy has since calmed me down. No bones broken (went next day into hospital for check). Many people have to put up with far worse injuries and illnesses. The fact that we missed one jolly neighbourhood Christmas party is a shame but really not the end of the world. And my partner Tony was very concerned to look after me and, when I suggested, amidst groans, that he should continue to the party without me, he refused very firmly.

Thereafter, having to rest and to take things easy over the festive period was quite calming and pleasant in its way. And I have resolved henceforth to watch my footing at all times – a wise decision, which will stand me in good stead for years to come.

My theme for this year’s BLOGs is Poetry. And there are lots of splendid and witty poems about feet.1 But nothing quite matched my personal experience. So here’s my own doggerel rhyme about falling and getting a black eye:

My dancing feet

They missed the beat;

I fell downstairs,

Spite all my cares.

 

I felt robust,

But got concussed.

My face went slack;

One eye turned black.

 

I felt a fool!

So my new rule:

On stairs or street,

Watch the damn feet!
 

ENDNOTES:

1 For a wonderful array of poems about human Feet, consult the Hello Poetry website: https://hellopoetry.com/tag/feet (viewed 31 Dec. 2025).

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