The first time it happened, it was in front of an oncoming bus on the Cabra Road. Not as dramatic as it sounds, I dusted the snow off my jacket and paid my fare, ignoring the sniggers of those on the ground floor and the onlookers who could have helped me up. But didn't. Geebags.
The second time was on Suffolk Street. I saw the number 10 bus and hastened to make it but went flying. Two Italian girls this time, nice sorts, made nice to me and offered me their assistance.
The third time it happened? Twenty minutes ago. I'd tiptoed my way from the 122 around the corner to my flat, stepped over the last vestiges of lying snow in the garden outside my house when THWACK, a balletic but stupid slip at the last possible black spot before my front door and safety. The Thai Chicken Soup in my carrier bag wasn't as lucky as me (no bruises) and now sits in a vomitous heap outside my gate, the bits of rice and gloop giving the lie because I never seem to fall when I'm drunk.
Unless you're counting that time on Pearse Street.