I had the back gutters to clean. They fill with algae, moss and dead leaves
over the winter, thanks to the four huge trees in the back garden and the
miniature environmental system that thrives on the roof tiles. The routine is always the same – go round
the side to pick up the ladder, which is lying on the ground leaning against
the wall, sweep away the cobwebs and leaves that have gathered on it since it
was last used, prop it up against the horizontal wooden strips that form the eaves,
pick up the green canvas bag with which to decant the detritus, and climb
gingerly aloft, bag in left hand. On the
first excursion, the bag fell to the ground when I tried to hook it round the
top of the ladder. I cursed it and
ignored it. I decided to work without the middle-man. I scooped handfuls of
muck and tossed the flotsam and jetsam onto the patio below. I climbed down,
moved the ladder six feet to the left, and started the process again. The mixture of sludge and water chilled my
fingers to the bone. I made seven different trips up and down the ladder.
Twenty minutes later, I was ready to ascend for the final time. This was the section of gutter at the extreme
left edge of the property, where I have my tall plastic tool cupboard and the
large table containing the recycling bins, hard up against the fence that divides me from my neighbour.
The enthusiastic workman would have shifted all of this furniture before
placing the ladder, but I wasn’t having any of that. Consequently, the ladder was at about 45
degrees from the vertical. What I would
normally have also done was to have wedged a large piece of wood between the
foot of the ladder and the patio border wall, for added safety. I looked at my cracked, filthy and freezing hands
– ‘stuff that,’ I said, and started wearily upwards.
I got well above the kitchen window when I
started a gentle descent. The ladder,
seeing that it now had a not inconsiderable weight climbing up it, followed the
laws of gravity and started an inexorable downward journey. For a split second, I thought my time had
come. I could see that the ladder would
go straight through the kitchen window, and I would be very seriously injured
indeed, my craggy features rearranged by sharp and jagged shrapnel. I watched in horror as the ladder reached the very bottom of the wooden strips and I prepared for Armageddon. By some miracle, at that precise time, the foot of the ladder came
hard up against the step that marks where the patio ends and the garden starts. It held. The forces of g ensured that although the ladder had
stopped, I continued my descent. I was
jolted down and sideways by the sudden impact, and it was all I could do to
hang on with one hand. A split second later (although it seemed an eternity), I
managed to lever my right foot onto the window-sill and manoeuvre myself into a
position where I could gain the ladder again and descend it.
I finally reached the ground, breathing
somewhat heavily, with a three-inch bloody gash in my right shin where it had
smacked into the ladder upright as I swung off the rungs, and a sense of shame
about my laziness and carelessness that I shall certainly recall when, in
twelve months’ time, I go round the side of the house again and sweep away the
cobwebs etc., before picking up the ladder to carry out this dreary task
again. I don’t want any more undue
excitement at my time of life.
