MY new hobby is falling. I say new, but apparently I was an adept faller as a toddler but now have taken it up again in my pensionable years. Oh, what larks!

There are three disciplines to my new pastime. The first is a sort of homage to the Winter Olympics which involves falling on ice. One spectacular effort four years ago produced a perfect triple salchow and an imperfect arm. Indeed, the arm shot out at an angle that required the intervention of a bone surgeon and a professor of geometry.

It was subsequently recognised by the award of a sling and enough drugs to sedate a dinosaur with a sore tooth.

This discipline is sponsored by local councils who have diligently refused to treat icy pavements, thus offering all the chance to participate.

The second is a sort of dressage, though performed mostly with the aid of a dog than a cuddy. This was completed recently on a walk around the park when a dog no bigger than a rat on steroids slipped between my legs and sent me crashing. This produced a spurt of blood from my forehead that required the intervention of a doctor and Red Adair.

READ MORE: Hugh MacDonald: We are here for only a brief time...we better make the most of it

The third is best described as the individual medley. This can be done indoors and outdoors and involves a series of styles, most notably the Who Left the Shopping There? (Spoiler: the answer is normally: “Me”).

There is endless fun in this because there are ample opportunities to fall in any house. My home carries a high tariff because it is a flat and therefore has more limited opportunities for the quick descent to the floor but I still manage to go down like a professional footballer under the slightest of contact.

There is a downside to falling. It involves having a loyalty card at the local A&E. It becomes wearing when the night shift at the hospital not only know one’s first name but also are keen to issue an invitation to their Christmas night out.

“I will be there if it is held in a bouncy castle, I can wear a succession of rubber rings, and there is a medical unit on hand,” I reply with a gay laugh and a slight wince as my dislocated shoulder is placed yet again into its proper position.

So there are fractures and dislocations, bumps and contusions. But falling also involves accumulating the sort of scar tissue that is normally the preserve of a UFC fighter. My forehead is now so smooth it is auditioning as the next Bond.

But there is an upside too. One meets all sorts of interesting people, mostly wearing surgical gloves and dressed in scrubs. It also attracts derision. And one can never have enough of that.

Family, too, become angry. It is a product of worry. Their concern morphs into a telling off. There is little worse than dabbing blood from one’s forehead to be greeted with the command: ‘’Dad, you have to stop falling.”

I mention that I will keep this sage advice in mind and promptly fall over one of the grandweans on the way out the door. It is akin to the riposte by the great Chic Murray when he collapsed on the street. “Did you fall?” he was asked. “No, I was trying to break a bar of toffee in my back pocket.”

My responses are, of course, less funny and more forced. The latest expedition to the hospital was a case in point. The owner of a dug who had cut me down piled me into his car. He said he was relaxed about the blood. “That’s the beauty of leather seats,” he said jovially. That’s Bearsden, folks.

The subject of a head wound was quickly exhausted but he recognised me – under a blood-soaked handkerchief and rapidly-turning crimson mask – as a sports journalist, or, at least and perhaps more accurately, someone who writes about sport.

Thus my approach to casualty was delayed by detailing the precise pros and cons of the managerial succession at Rangers Football Club.

There have been more productive discussions. The hobby has, of course, been the topic of much chatter with members of the medical profession. I have been subjected to more tests than an aspiring astronaut.

This has produced a sincere, deeply-held gratitude towards the efforts of the NHS. Workers there have been both patient and unstinting. I have been jagged by needles, placed in machines that are so sophisticated they should wear top hat and tails, and studied for illnesses I cannot spell or even pronounce. The results have all come back negative.

Though a test for old dodderiness might have come back positive.

An unassailable conclusion has been reached. There is no medical reason for my falling. It is not a condition. It is a pastime. Yes, a hobby.

People, of course, notice the war wounds and approach me with solutions, mostly they involve staying indoors in winter and not walking about the house. This is all gratefully received but more difficult to implement.

There have been informal talks with my mate who is a doctor. He has ruled out any psychic disturbance but, then again, he has no psychiatric training.

He did, though, offer advice. Doctors always do. He told me: “Just go on walking and don’t worry about it.”

To be safe, I am going to do both.

SUBSCRIBE TODAY

We want to bring you the best The Herald has to offer every day.

For just £2 for two months, you can instantly read your favourite writers.

When you head over to our subscriptions page you’ll see three options:

•             Our Premium subscription, for £1.75 per week

•             Our Premium Plus subscription, for less than £2.50 per week

•             Our Print Only subscription, which could save you 25% if you enjoy buying the paper.

Our special offer can be found under the “Premium Plus” plan under the option of £2 for two months, then £9.99 monthly afterwards if you decide to stay with us.

Subscribe to The Herald and don't miss a single word from your favourite writers by clicking here