They say pride comes before a fall.
But I certainly didn't feel proud when I fell over in the street last week.
Especially as I splatted straight onto my knee.
The same knee that I had a series of operations on a couple of decades ago.
The one that has no cushioning in the joint.
The one that had me hobbling to grueling physio sessions 5 times a week for a year.
The one that took all that time to heal when I was in my 20s with supposedly fast powers of recovery.
The same one that is still swollen with technicolour bruising 6 days after I fell ...