As a general rule,  when your body is in a horizontal position, more or less parallel to the sidewalk but above it by three feet or so, you should brace yourself for sudden impact.  Oddly enough, when I found myself in that exact position a couple of days ago, having slipped on a miniscule patch of black ice on the way home from work, I became totally transfixed by my boots, hovering, as they were, in mid air before my eyes.

"I should really give those puppies a shine," was the thought going through my mind as the back of my head came crashing down onto the concrete. Crr--ack! The initial impact was like a gunshot,  the force of which was sufficient to propel my head upwards again, as far as my neck would allow at any rate..and then my newly battered noggin came whipping down once more; this time I must have turned slightly because the right side of my face bore the brunt of the sidewalk's unwillingness to give an inch.

Dazed, confused, with visions of Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner racing through my addled brain, I tried to sit up. Listing drastically to the right, I  propped myself up on one elbow and took a look around. Two passers-by, curious, yes, but not enough to actually stop and offer assistance.  It was then that I noticed the steady drip, drip, drip of blood collecting in a puddle on the sidewalk. My nose? No. A gash on my lip. I took off my toque and felt the back of my head, where a bump the size of Prince Edward Island was forming. Ouch. More passers-by hurried by on their way to the Metro,  self-absorbed as I has been, letting nothing get in the way of their rush home.  I managed to get up, collect my thoughts ...and my stuff. Using my scarf to staunch the flow of blood, I made my way to the nearest public washroom to clean up as best I could. What a sight staring back at me from the mirror! The right side of my face had an angry red scrape running down its length; from just below the eye and across my lips, disappearing into my beard. My bloodied lip was ballooned up, and I had at least two, maybe three teeth that were cracked or broken, and I was bleeding around the gums.

What a mess! And it had all happened in a nano second.

Armed with moistened paper towels and my refilled plastic bottle of water, I made my way onto the Metro, stopping only to phone my wife and ask her to pick me up at the station closest to our home.  I actually got a seat on the Metro, but I had to get off because I had the distinct impression that  I was going to pass out if I didn't remove my winter coat and heavy sweater. Sooooo hot. I clawed my way out at the next stop and made the necessary wardrobe adjustments, getting more than a few strange looks as I pulled my bruised, bleeding and beleaguered self together. The next Metro was even more crowded than the first, so I didn't get a seat but, for some mysterious reason, people gave me a LOT of room. I found a spot up against the rear door of the Metro car and hung on, desperate for the 25-minute ride to come to an end.

My wife Aurora was waiting for me when I came out of the Metro, and was concerned and comforting all the way home. Ahh, home. Aurora had a good look at the damage once we got there and agreed, all things considered, it could have been a lot worse. Cuts and bruises, a couple of broken teeth, and a nasty bump. Not even a concussion to speak of. Nothing that some rest, painkillers and a several visits to the dentist  wouldn't cure. 

And then she cracked up, royally. Something to do with that new hillbilly smile of mine.

Actually, I kind of like it.