It was a dull spring Wednesday morning in London and I had completed my commute to work via train and exited the station. The 5 minute walk to my office is usually pleasant. The sun tearing through the valley of tall buildings along usually accompanied by a sudden gust of wind as I made my way to the clock tower traffic island.
As it was approximately 8:40am this particular morning, it wasn't the early start I anticipated. My office held approximately 1,500 people spread across 12 floors. As there are only 4 lifts, its quite often over subscribed. Therefore I always opt for the stairs as I worked on the 3rd floor. I began to quickly climbing up each individual step to get an adrenaline rush to start my morning. Approaching the second floor, I clipped my foot mid-set which had diving to the ground. I landed on my hand and chest with the contents of my bag spilt. Just then to my luck the door to the second floor swung open where a woman, coffee in hand, stepped out to see me lying flat. Imagining her facial expression, I wasn't able to look at her face or begin to explain how I fell up the stairs. I gathered up of what left of my shame and dusted myself off. I scooped up my belongings and walking the last set of stairs to the third floor.
When I arrived at my desk a neighbouring colleague asked me as to why I looked dismayed. "Heavy night last night," I lied. If only he knew the truth.
In future walk, but don't run.
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