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I feel I should tell you about falling on the Whanganui River -only metaphorically speaking, of course: one happens on a river, or less romantically, falls in; falling on is different. Very different.

Falling, of course is not as easy as it looks; one has to forget about things to fall: the roughness of the ground, the vacuousness of the brain in the moment, and, inevitably, the etymological impediments on the feet (from the Latin word ‘pes’ for ‘foot’ and the ‘im’ part meaning ‘shackle’ or something). Everyone seems to blame my Age, but I know better; I’m simply not a multitasker. Never have been, either.

No, I was simply out for an early morning run on an asphalt trail by a river, when the irritating voice on my smartwatch suddenly stopped informing me of my heartrate. ‘Suddenly’ is misleading, I suppose, though. I mean if a voice which is programmed to whisper my pulse aggressively into my hearing aids every 45 seconds stops doing that, when does its absence become sudden? Just an epistemological point there…

At any rate, at some point, its absence became evident, and because the smartwatch takes its orders from the smartphone I was carrying, it seemed a difficult task in the moment to allocate blame while dividing my eyes between watch and phone, and relying on my feet to sense the ground -which is their job, eh?

It is my habit when something misbehaves, and tapping then if necessary shaking it fails to have the desired effect, to simply switch it off, mutter something vaguely imprecarious, and then promptly switch it back on. I’m a great believer in cause and effect, but I have to confess, I don’t know how or why it works; perhaps it resets something or other.

But, enough of magical thinking, it’s what I did in the trying circumstances. My feet, however, sensed they were now off-leash and forgot the obeisance their contract required. My eyes, as well, were no longer on danger-watch; only my brain, and its ever-faithful semicircular canals sensed something a bit odd. And the rest is history.

I mean I wasn’t hurt, or anything -well, just my pride, I suppose. I got up from the pavement and was about to brush myself off and resume running when an elderly woman walking her tiny lap-dog hurried across the empty, dawn street looking worried.

“Are you okay?” I asked, seeing the concern on her face.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, straining to keep the dog from licking my knees.

I looked down and saw a fairly large abrasion on my right knee that was bleeding away industriously.

 “And look at your fingers… Oh and your elbow…” she added, seeming even more troubled.

Nothing really hurt, or anything, but the blood was staining my running shoe and as the sun stretched its yawn above the horizon, I realized that in the interests of public decorum I should probably head back to the motel.

Falling comes as naturally to me as running, and New Zealand is certainly no stranger to my proclivities. This was Whanganui, but Napier seems to have been the more the willing participant in my injuries over the years -and always with running. I broke my wrist there about 9 or 10 years ago when a dog, no longer in its yard, chased me off a curb.

Oh yes, and last year, on my 80ieth birthday no less, I was running on the paved path of their Marine Parade and, distracted by a magnificent dog walking on the grass with its master, lost control of my feet. There was no dizziness to blame, or pain, or signs of anything but inattention; I merely scraped the asphalt once again. I needed stitches in my hand for that one…

But I wear these medals proudly, and it speaks of my affinity for New Zealand, that I return here again and again, offering my body in trust. I have to have stories to tell people about my trips, when I return, don’t I? And I wouldn’t think of going home again without a fall to brag about…

I mean not everybody falls, eh?