It was January 7th, 2026 and I’d already dialled 999.

The morning had brought an unnatural cold. The streets were iced and London was taken by surprise. I rushed out, eager to swing into the New Year. I had big plans for 2026, but I didn’t expect to be greeted by tremulous office-dwellers and school kids sliding along the pavement. They looked like new born fawns, arms extended, knees bent, and bottoms ready to cushion any slips.

There’s something admirable and idiotic about the British and the weather. Anything that’s not mild sends us into a spin. We only need two sunny days to declare it a heatwave; only a few flecks of snow to call it a crisis. Though, unless you’re a train, you’ll find that we’ll persevere through the elements as long as we’re allowed to complain about them and stick to our usual habits. That morning, you needed only look at everyone’s feet to realise this foolishness was alive and well.

Plimsolls, high heels, trainers, and loafers. Everyone’s shoe choice offered them about as much grip on the ice as a pyramid scheme ambassador has on basic arithmetic. I had faired no better. I had popped on my go-to trainers, skipped out the door, and cursed at the ground after nearly breaking my neck. New Balance, indeed.

Waddling along, I was rueful. I’d wanted to test out the new ice-ready shoes I’d picked up in anticipation for a winter trip to Estonia. My dad’s poorly timed heart attack had postponed the holiday, so I had yet to explore their full potential and it was too late to go back and put them on now. A wasted opportunity. I can count on one hand the number of times it has snowed or frosted up with any real effort while I’ve lived in the city centre. However, I would need many more hands to count the number of people who fell over during the first five minutes of my morning walk. The most spectacular and, dare I say deserving, was a cyclist.

The traffic light turned red and the green man flashed up. We pedestrians crossed while the lead cyclist in the lane furthest ahead of us had a bright idea: why wait a few extra seconds? Why not bypass the red light by cutting the pavement off? Then he could make the left turn he needed to advance his journey and get a gold star from his manager for being proactive. He pulled himself and his bicycle onto the pavement, pushed down on his pedal, and, at the moment of take off, had his tyres slick out from under him. He landed on the ground with an almighty clang.

The light turned green for the cyclists waiting in the road. They pulled away and we pedestrians made our way around the guy on the ground. He eventually picked himself up and joined us. I think he was too stunned and embarrassed to take to two wheels again after getting back-handed by the ice.

I wanted to make haste, so I tried outsmarting the ice. First, I studied the shade and shine, hoping some pattern for safe-stepping would reveal itself. Nope. My second idea had the unwanted effect of gaining me some followers. Surely the traffic would have melted the ice and created some avenues for safe passage. Nope. The side road was just as treacherous, except now there were cars trying to run us over. My followers weren’t fairing any better. A lady in stilettos and a big fur coat lost her balance and caught herself on an unwilling SUV that beeped her. She beeped back and retreated to the pavement.

The high-footfall near Waterloo station offered some respite. The shuffling of the early commuters had melted a safe route through. Most people followed each other tightly, flowing along the pavement like a river with invisible banks, making pains not to deviate from the footsteps of the person in front. The zebra crossing, however, remained a death trap.

I made it over, but it was touch and go. The slope up was no problem, but the pull of gravity down was an unwanted thrill. If it wasn’t for the lamp post on the other side, I’d be writing this story from the dentist. The guy on the grey Vespa wasn’t as lucky.

There’s an intuitive knowing when someone hurts themselves. Like penguins, three of us waddled over to Vespa-man. He’d tried turning left but his wheels gave way and punched him into the ground. Vespa-man hadn’t said anything, so I broke the silence, ‘Hey, are you OK?’ I tried to make it sound concerned, but jolly. The sort of tone that says we are here to help rather than mug you while you’re down. At least, I wasn’t planning on mugging him and I don’t think the East Asian man and the sturdy hippie with the kind face were planning to either.

The next series of events happened over about 240 seconds.

Despite my good intention, I did end up with someone else’s phone. The traffic was piling up and honking, so I shared my thinking with the group: ‘Does anyone know anything about motorbikes? We should move it out of the road, but I don’t know how to turn the engine off. I’m happy to offer some muscle to help with lifting though?’ The kind-faced hippie was a biker, so he handed me his phone with 999 pre-dialled and coordinated with the other guy to move the Vespa to somewhere that wasn’t the middle of the road.

‘Hello. Do you want police, fire or ambulance?’.
‘Ambulance’.
‘OK. Is the person conscious? Is there a lot of bleeding?’
‘Yes and no’.
‘Ok, thank you. Please hold’. Hold? I guess I’d been triaged. It must be a morning of emergencies.

With a bit of help, the man on the Vespa had crawled over to the curb. He was holding his ribs and grimacing. The hippie-faced man started asking him some questions.

‘Hi mate. Are you alright? You had a fall. We are getting an ambulance. Where does it hurt? Your ribs and shoulder. OK.’

A new voice chimed up through the phone, ‘Hello. Ambulance. Can the patient breathe?’

‘He can breathe but he says it’s short.’

Our patient was standing now, but with a soft buckle. I think he wanted to sit, but the curb was too wet and cold. He had spied the waist-high flower beds the council had installed a few summers ago and made his way over. The East Asian man – based on his accent, I want to say he was Cantonese – offered him a hand. While telling the operator where we were, I started looking through the recycling a local business had left outside for collection. I pulled out some corrigated cardboard.

‘Here. You can sit on this’. I figured the last thing he wanted was a soggier bottom.

‘You’re all very kind.’ He put the cardboard under him and sat down on the edge of the flower bed. I noticed a flash of red on his nose. Blood. He must have scraped it when he fell.

A man decorated in high-visibility gear kicked up onto the curb and circled us before parking up.

‘Hello. I assume this gentleman here needs the medical attention?’.

The paramedic took over and started asking questions with a steady and bright voice. He was thinking bruises or fractures around the ribs and shoulder. I told the operator that help had arrived and handed the phone back to the kind-faced hippie. The paramedic turned to us and gave us a thumbs up. We were dismissed. We exchanged glances and grins and turned our separate ways.

A woman then let out a yelp. It was the zebra crossing again. She hadn’t anticipated the rush down on the second half of journey and had no hands free. She looked like a cartoon slipping on a banana peel. Her coffee leapt out of its cup and into the air and she landed firmly on her back, her backpack breaking her fall and saving her skull. The coffee landed with a splash around her.

The paramedic called out to her: ‘Are you OK miss?’ The woman was laughing. She was fine.

‘You see. That’s why we don’t rush. You want to get to school, but you can’t be rushing on a day like this. Mama ain’t got time for it neither. You go slow and we’ll all get there in one piece. Now hold my hand. We’re going around’.

The Nigerian mother on the school run was right. Ain’t no one got time for rushing. I put my arms out, bent my knees, and started shuffling my way through the last leg of my trip.