Apples and Pears
Taking a piss shouldn’t be dangerous. So when Sol came to, he was understandably confused. He wasn’t in pain, but he couldn’t seem to move that well. He raised himself up on his elbow and looked around. He was at the bottom of the stairs - the pisser was at the top. He could see that his left leg was somewhere behind him and his torso was flat on the ground, with the right leg on the bottom stair. Jesus, he thought, that’s probably not right. A warm wetness around his thighs told him that his bladder had taken advantage of his black-out.
He tried to push himself more upright and was rewarded with a lightning-bolt of pain from his left knee to the top of his skull.
He lay back and ruminated. How had that happened? Of course he had had a couple - two beers and a slug or two of Laphroaig - but no way was he pissed. He was alone in the house and the house stood in its own grounds - miles from anywhere or anybody. He had a mobile, but no idea where it was - he never did until it rang.
That’s a bitch, he thought. Over his head was a set of coat hooks overcrowded with a selection of waterproofs, wax jackets and fleeces he never wore and the motorcycle jacket that was never off his back when he ventured out. He reached up and managed to get a hand to a three-quarter tweed jacket he’d bought for the last time he was on television - not that he wore it. He’d worn the motorbike jacket.
He pulled on the coat and raised himself six inches. It was painful, but endurable. He pulled harder and rose another six inches. He had most of his weight on the coat now, but the coat hook was not intended for fifteen stone of ancient guitarist and it shot out of the wall, taking the whole row of hooks with it.
Another blast of pain made him black out for a unknown time, and he came to covered in old coats and plaster. As he pushed the coats off his face his mobile slid from the pocket of the leather jacket gleaming in the light from the hall window and nestling in a bed of plaster dust.