When I carry a cup of tea up the stairs, I think of the time I fell carrying a cup of tea up the stairs and ended up with a spectacular third-degree burn on my arm, and the way various medical professionals asked me what I interpreted to be variations on the question, "Are you safe at home?" including the question, "What kind of tea was it?"
And every time I go down the basement stairs (often holding a laundry basket), I feel I am being given a glimpse into the future to foresee a time I fall down the basement stairs swearing and crying out and end in a crumpled heap at the bottom.
Since my little bout of falling over last year I find it impossible to cross roads now without imagining myself sprawled on the road with a huge London bus hurtling towards me.
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