Reaching over to my buzzing phone, I saw it was a message from one of my oldest friends, Jenny, and grinned. ‘Drinks at mine?’ she’d asked, and for the first time in months, my answer was yes. Not only were my son, then 11, and daughter, two, with my daughter’s dad that evening in January 2017, but I also had a night off from my barmaid job at the local pub. ‘You’re on,’ I replied. As a busy mum, I didn’t get much time for me, so I was excited for our first girls’ night in ages and felt I deserved a few hours of fun.
Soon after, I arrived at Jenny’s in the neighbouring town and we sat at the kitchen table sharing a bottle of wine and enjoying a catch-up. An hour later, we were both feeling slightly tipsy when Jenny’s neighbour phoned inviting us over for a drink. They’d been good friends since Jenny moved to the area a few years earlier. ‘Fancy it?’ Jenny asked. ‘Why not?’ I shrugged, deciding to make the most of my rare night of freedom.
Wine and nostalgia
Grabbing our coats and bags, we walked next door, which, like Jenny’s, was a three-story townhouse. As Jenny’s neighbour ushered us into the hallway, I noticed the enormous wooden staircase snaking up all three floors. Chuckling to myself as we climbed the stairs, I had a flashback to my childhood and how much fun I used to have sliding down banisters. ‘Imagine doing it now’, I thought. ‘Wouldn’t that be funny?’
Whether it was the wine, or the overarching sense of nostalgia, my intrigue got the better of me and, as we reached the first-floor landing, I swung my leg over the banister preparing to slide down. But as I tried to mount the handrail, my foot got caught in the strap of my bag, knocking me off balance and sending me hurtling headfirst towards the concrete floor seven feet below.
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Esta historia es de la edición December 30, 2019 de WOMAN'S OWN.
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