"It was a slip, not a trip," I say. "I want that noted."
This, whilst I'm still on the ground, trying (and failing) to avoid laughing at myself. I'd slipped on some ice earlier in the run, but that time, I'd managed to (barely) stay vertical. Not this time; I'm completely horizontal. My friends, Michelle Wolff and Harold Dravenstott, are not laughing at all. They're much too polite. And concerned.
They should be, for I'm an old man.
But I'm okay. Only my pride was hurt. I just hope that everything is noted.
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