133 Hours

O HOURS I step forward onto the main concourse of Glasgow Central station to find the not uncommon feature of a wet and greasy surface. As I rush forward, my foot skids on the tiles and I totter for a second or two, trying to regain my balance. For a moment, I marvel at the thought of a city with Glasgow’s pedigree for science, art and culture accepting some genius’s idea to floor their principal railway station with tiles. My years of teenage ballet training serve to no avail when a surge of rushing commuters jostle past. Clutching my handbag to my chest, my other hand reaches out, seeking a hand, an arm, a shoulder… anything for support, but it’s not to be. I yelp as my hip thuds against a bench whilst my ankle twists under me, my torso spiralling to the ground. I notice one heel of my stilettos is twisted out of shape. Crowds of passengers pass me in a blur in the moments I take to nurse my wounds and regain some composure. I realise I’ve scraped my thigh, but more concerning is my throbbing ankle. Once I’ve confirmed there’s nothing broken, I apply a gentle massage to ease the pain then try staggering to my feet. “You alright, luv?” I hear the man’s voice, an English accent, as my elbow is supported, lifting me upright. He’s gone before I can consider a reply. A literal case of too little, too late, I think. Biting on my lip to deflect my attention from the pains in my leg, I shuffle forward a few paces. I feel strange, disoriented. It’s not the fall. My head is fuzzy; I can’t seem to think straight. It isn’t only my throbbing ankle; my limbs are sore, disjointed almost, and I have an ache from my nether regions. I must be coming down with something. I glance upwards towards the enormous destination screen. At first, all I see is flashing lights, too painful to focus, but I make out the time showing on the digital clock; it’s 8.56. I’m going to be late. Something else is wrong. I’m never late. I’m diligent. In the four months since I started at Archers International, I haven’t ever arrived less than fifteen minutes early. Mr Ronson, the regional director, told me he was impressed by my work and my commitment. He said I would have a great future with the company. Now, here am I, requiring a five-minute brisk stroll to the office and I’m struggling to walk.