One of the perils of living alone is nobody can hear you scream. Twice in the past few weeks my body and my house have had a serious disagreement. The first occasion found me walking down my stairs in socks. The last few steps on my staircase turn at a 90 degree angle and I kind of missed the 2nd last one, my feet flew out in front of me and I landed on my arse and back. My left arm smashed into the last step and my shoulder crashed into another. First thing I did was moan, then quickly check every bone in my body and then had a little think about having a small cry. Not a fan of that level of pain. I lay there for around 5 minutes as the pain slowly ebbed away.
Today I leant across my desk to put some mail in my office bin, mistimed my grip on the table, jammed my knee into the heater, spun myself around a full 180 degrees and slam dunked myself into one of my bookshelves. My head cracked down onto the second shelf, my left arm into a lower shelf and the middle of my back scored a perfect impact on the shelf between those two. I now have a welt across my left back the size of a tennis ball.
No I wasn't drinking, in fact I haven't had an alcoholic drink in two weeks! My eye sight is fine and I can count backwards from 100, so I can come to one conclusion and one conclusion only, my house is trying to kill me. Is this what happens when a sinner like me moves into an old church building?
*apologies to all who rang me this afternoon, my mood did not lend itself to conversation after my gymnastic spin. I'll speak to you all very soon, gravity permitting.