All I had to do was thank the handyman when he left and then continue sitting down. Not exerting myself was the priority. Left alone for an hour, I thought I could achieve that.
From the helpful brief of "Sit here, and don't do anything that could pull your muscles. I'll be back when I have gone to the bank for you and picked up the spare keys." I was able to extract "Lie down, in such a way as to ensure you can't get up." I lay down on the bed, and realised that I could not exercise my stomach muscles sufficiently to pull myself back up.
Gazing at the ceiling, my mind wondered idly whether, when Matt returned home, he would be able to justify living with a woman who cannot even get back up after she has laid down? And laid down contrary to his own loving advice?
He might look at me, lying there, covered in Asda's own-brand strawberry laces and wincing every time the dust made me sneeze and think "I have set up house with an imbecile." I didn't want him to think that. Or surmise that I needed round-the-clock, specialist care to deal with having pulled a muscle. I am nature's optimist. I tried rolling to the side, rocking my feeble body back and forth. With enough momentum, I had figured that I would be able to roll on to the floor and land face-down, allowing me to push myself upright with my hands, gripping the furniture around me for support.
Later, as I brushed the dried blood from my hair and applied pressure to the wound, I was able to reflect that I had, at least, thanked the handyman, and that now the front door locked correctly. Progress!
