MY HOUSE IS TRYING TO KILL ME

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.