Reasons why Fran doesn't need the gym

We live in a small terraced Victorian house which we rent from a private landlord and our stairs are to die for.

Scrub that. Our stairs are to die ON.

For a start, it’s a very narrow staircase. The day we moved in, the removal men took one glance at the staircase then one look at all the beds, wardrobes and bookcases in the van and we could see they were thinking, If only we’d taken that job we were offered, removing fatbergs from sewers with our bare hands.

Not only is the staircase narrow but it’s precipitous. Think of it like a combo of Mount Everest and The Giant’s Causeway, but with a banister to lull you into thinking that being catapulted into eternity isn’t imminent.

Not only is the staircase narrow and precipitous but it’s mercilessly wooden. In our previous house, the stairs were carpeted and you could walk up and down them in heavy boots if you liked without the people next door ringing the emergency services and reporting a terrible accident.

In this house, it’s either slippers, socks or bare feet, although, should we ever fall out with our current neighbour and want him to move far away, we could buy a pair of Dutch clogs each and I think his house would be on Rightmove within the hour.

My husband found out precisely how perilous our stairs were when he launched himself down them in a hurry a couple of years ago, only to stumble, bump-bump-bumping his way south on his back, cracking several ribs and ending up 90% bruise for a few weeks: a deep bishop-purple which would have looked lovely had it not signalled significant internal bleeds.

He’s had several other near misses since then. ‘Careful!’ I’ve warned him afterwards and I’m sure he appreciates the advice because we all know how useful it is when someone tells us to be careful once the accident has nearly happened.

On the mornings when I do the cleaning, this means hoiking the vacuum cleaner up the stairs. We have a Henry Hoover - fat, round and heavy - which we keep in a downstairs cupboard. ‘Shall I haul you upstairs today?’ I say to it, ‘or shall I try a lower-risk activity such as standing on the M40 in my nightie or drinking bleach straight from the bottle?’

But, sigh, there’s no choice (until we do the sensible thing and buy a lighter vacuum cleaner), so, up we both go, clonkety-clonkety-clonk, a step at a time, and, as we ascend, I confess my sins, just in case.

A poem

Because her stairs were steeper

she met with the Grim Reaper

while carrying her sweeper.

(This poem could be deeper.)

Everyone who comes to the house for the first time and who needs to go up our stairs (we only have one bathroom) comments on the staircase.

‘Make sure you hold on to the banister,’ we say, as they set off. ‘Those stairs are a challenge.’

‘Nah, I’ll be fine,’ they reply.

‘Are you sure you don’t want the ropes and crampons?’ we say. ‘Or a harness?’

‘Ha ha,’ they say. ‘You’re funny.’

And then we hear them, effing and jeffing, puffing and panting, as they climb, dragging themselves up and no doubt deciding not to accept a coffee refill or another glass of wine in case they have to do it all again.

I’ve only told you what it’s like going up. Coming down is a-whole-nother level of jeopardy, particularly if you have knee issues and forget to tread lightly. Wooden stairs offer no shock absorbers for dodgy knees. Just the shock alone.

‘You need to do something about those dangerous stairs,’ our grown-up children say, shaking their heads gravely. ‘What about a bungalow?’

We say, ‘What about being cut out of the inheritance, you cheeky blighters?’

‘What inheritance?’

‘Fair point. Fair point.’

There is a bright side to our staircase of doom. It offers a free workout. You won’t get a better test of your thigh muscles than climbing it without holding on to the banister. There are 13 [goes to count] FOURTEEN stairs, and if you can make it to the top and don’t spontaneously combust on the landing, you can tell the world that your quadriceps conquered Fran Hill’s staircase and, move over, Gladiators.

There are other advantages, too, to our staircase.

I mean, I’m sure there must be.

If only I could think of them.

Er …

Give me a minute …

Er …

Um …

What about …. they made a handy topic for a blog post?

Now for the feature you never ask for but have to suffer regardless.

Inside Fran’s Diary

Watch out for imminent news of book launch events around the release of ‘Home Bird’ in March. If you think you might buy the book, please do pre-order. Pre-orders tell the booksellers that there’s a demand and they’re more likely to pop the book on their shelves and that means big smiles all round. Go to Amazon, Waterstones or Bookshop.org or your local bookshop.

Other things in the diary coming up soon!

This Thursday, talking to my daughter’s work-based book club on Teams about Cuckoo in the Nest.

12 February, being a ‘Human Book’ at Kenilworth Library, telling the story of how I became an author.

19 March, chairing a meeting of the Warwickshire Society of Authors group about literary festivals.

2 April, speaking at Warwick Library about my books.

5 April, at Banbury Book Fair selling copies of Cuckoo in the Nest and the spanking-new Home Bird.

If you want more details about any of these events, no one will judge you. Just message me.