Once upon a time, a very long time ago (going on 20 years, I think) in a land far away, I took a fall down a long, steep set of metal stairs in a castle ruin. It happened in Scotland, and I obviously lived to tell about it, but during the fall I wasn’t sure I would. Even M had thoughts of having to take me home in a body bag. We both agree it seemed to take hours for me to reach the bottom although it was probably a matter of seconds. I miraculously made it to the bottom with almost no injuries (a cut, a missing fingernail, a little mud on my nose).