Middle-aged men should not do combat-rolls.

Mrs M and I went to Batsford Arborteum to day for a wander and for me to try out the new 50mm standard lens with the D800.

Everything was going really well, getting some pictures, enjoying the trees, flowers and sun when I hit a cunning trap laid by some subversive Nikon hater. My right foot slipped on an algae covered sloping path, my left foot shot forward to gain balance and that also slipped and so there I was, going down to meet the ground face first.

As usual in a situation such as this, slow-motion kicked in and I could see that my D800 (on a strap over my neck and shoulder) was moving towards what could be a terminal altercation with the ground. I grabbed it and using my well-known and oft admired acrobatic skill, twisted my torso so that my back was presented to the ground and my D800 was safely clutched to my chest. Unfortunately however, it seemed that my legs did not get the message to twist around and they decided to remain facing in my original direction of travel.

I hit the ground and rolled holding the D800 up from harm and my somewhat recalcitrant legs eventually decided to follow the example of my superbly honed athletic body and face the same way as the rest of my anatomy.

After a few seconds of allowing my brain to realise I was still alive, getting up off the ground proved surprisingly easy with the help of the sturdy Mrs M. The standard quick glance around the immediate area, showed that no one else had seen the triumphant manouevre and that also my camera was fine. Unfortunately during the show, the muscles down my lower left back had found it difficult to stretch and flex and so had arbitrarily decided to remain in blissful lethargy and as a result had suffered what can only be described as a teeth-gritting, eye-watering and whimper inducing strain or rip.  So, the first step I then took coincided with enough pain messages from my back to my brain, to elicit from me a somewhat fruity selection of Anglo Saxon phrases that mentioned procreation, illigitimacy and excrement – and all in that order as I remember.

Being driven back home by Mrs M,  I sat crumpled in the passenger seat mournfully recalling my early days as Premier Danseur with the Bolshoi, and contemplating the eternal folly of a 56 year old man attempting an impromptu audition as a stunt man on the next Jason Statham movie.

What’s more, I’m sure I heard Mrs M. cruelly giggle during the aforementioned incident.

Anyway my Nikon is safe. 



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