No matter how many stairs she had to climb, nothing was going to keep Jeanette from getting down in Notting Hill.

I didn't think too much of it initially, but sooner rather than later when I noticed it was the size of, well, an average-sized house, it occurred to me that perhaps my ol' ligaments might have been damaged.

I still wasn't really taking it seriously until a colleague saw it and, oozing concern, said, "Jesus! Look at the size of that!" While my first defence was a good-humoured, "Are you saying I have fat knees?!'"

He then regained the serious tone and said, 'Get some ice, you should elevate that!" My reply was still pretty laidback: "Na, I'll just head home on a bus." (I could still limp on it, and it didn't seem half as bad as my previous injuries! It's all relative.)

But no. The next minute the same colleague reappears. He's armed with ice and bandages, has organised an appointment with the company doctor, and drives me there directly.

I'm led up the stairs (encouraged by a voice from the second floor that says, "Take your time Jeanette, it's okay, take your time"), to a wall-to-wall dark oak-panelled office, which looks like a something out of a period drama filmset, and introduced to one of the weirdest characters I've seen in my life. Resplendent in a classic three-piece navy suit, complete with gold-watch hanging out of his breast pocket (I wouldn't be surprised if he had a monocle!), he takes one quick look (as only doctors can get away with and still charge an exhorbitant fee) and says, in the weirdest, bordering on camp, accent I've ever heard, "Oooh, that's nasty."

He asks me more about my personal history (i.e., why an Australian is living in Ireland) than my knee's, and gives me a hard-core injection in the bum. Mmm, codeine anyone?!

Next stop is the hospital, to get crutches, where to avoid queing for hours in A&E, my colleague befriends one of the security guards who nabs a (presumably) spare pair lying around. Or else, some poor bastard is gonna have a longer walk home than me tonight!

I'm dropped home and told to stay there, not to come into work, and was strongly advised by the doctor not to go to London. Damn.

Okay, firstly, I find it impossible to stay at home with my leg elevated for half a day. Knowing how restless I can be, half an hour is a challenge. So you can forget about "not going to London." My difficulty in staying home has less to do with London itself, as I lived there for two years (and it's not all that), than it has to do with the point of the trip: - Notting Hill Carnival.

This isn't just any weekend in London. NHC is an annual event and has been on my list of must-dos for five years. It simply has to be ticked this time.

My friend in London (Tony) calls, saying, "You've done what?! Still, that's not going to get in the way of our fun is it? Get on the plane!"

Arguably, it's stupid, but I do just that.

So, I cab it to the airport the next morning and hobble around, hoping to check in early so I can buy a daypack, as opposed to the three small bags strewn round my neck, back and clutched in my left hand (making balancing quite a task). I can't check in early, but better still (or so I thought), I manage to get an earlier flight. However, this left no time for the absolutely necessary bag-purchasing. And then of course, there were the stairs. Stairs. Stairs. More stairs - a factor which would've served me well to have considered more heavily, than well, not at all. Oh, the fun I hadn't quite envisaged!

By the time I reach London I'm pretty exhausted, so much so that if it wasn't for the physical presence of the plane I could've sworn I had flapped my wings across the Irish Sea. I head directly to the lifts (yay!), courtesy of some help from obliging strangers, to the station (fortunately located at the airport).

For the first time ever, I actually appreciate the journey time it takes to arrive at Liverpool Street Station, as it means I can recouperate, and then I go to call Tony to confirm our pre-arranged meeting point. When I discover my "newish" phone can't be used in the UK (oops!), I decide to get the tube to Clapham, as arranged, and call him from there with a phonecard. But I can't remember whether it's Clapham North, Clapham Common, Clapham Junction or Clapham South, so I call Tony first to double-check. As he's undoubtedly in a pub so doesn't hear his phone, I leave a message, even though he can't call me back! On the tube I ask someone if they know which station is closest to his address.

"Leyton? That's nowhere near Clapham!" comes the advice.

Oh.

She suggests I try calling from Clapham North. So I go to buy phone cards, as my limited time meant I still hadn't converted my Irish pounds to sterling. The phonecard machine is out of stock, so I negotiate the stairs, read the map and see that the closest station to Leyton is actually "ClapTON"! Aaah, I see - guess that's where he is then.

I ask how to get there, and discover I have to go back to Liverpool Street Station! Heading back down the stairs I get the next train back. Changing at Bank station I realise I won't be able to get up the stairs to buy a phonecard, ring and get back in time for the next train. So while I'm weighing my options, an extremely helpful guy says "Just go straight to Leyton, there's minicabs outside and you'll be able to go straight to his house or call him from there; either way, you'll at least be there."

That makes a whole lotta sense - particularly in my current state.

On my arrival, some more extremely helpful people empathise and let me use their mobile to call Tony. Understandably, he's been a bit worried as to why I've taken so long, but he says, tactfully, "Erm, what are you doing at Leyton?" I reply that I'll explain the whole saga when I see him, but summarise that I thought it'd save time and avoid missing last tubes, etc., to which he replies - even more cautiously - "I don't live there anymore, I'm at Clapham!" Aaaaaaaaaargh! Clapham is now, like, 17-18 miles away!

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