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Good lord, there's nothing like a sudden, unexpected November to the solar plexus. Where did that come from? Sucker punched. Not fair.
It was a good weekend, but generally I'm a bit stiff and painful. At the Fiasco game on Saturday I managed to fall over the dog, turning my ankle and collapsing into my chair at the dining room table. I have a large and painful bruise on my right forearm, just below the elbow, and two smaller ones in long lines across my right thigh and left shin. I am completely unable to reconstruct the actual position which caused this particular constellation of klutz-marks: as far as I can work out I must have been carrying my left leg in my right hand. Most mysterious. I blame the dog.
The soreness is not assisted by the fact that I finally sorted out the vegetable planters on Sunday, this entailing lugging eight bags of compost around the show, as well as assorted digging, raking, weeding, hauling, planting, watering and disposing of the corpses. (The winter's remnants of vegetable foliage). Highlight of the afternoon: filling up the watering can and attempting to water random pots of things. No water came out. On peering interestedly into the spout, I was met with the waving eye-stalks of a confused and desperate snail, who'd apparently climbed up there from the inside and stuck. I used the trowels to send him those arm-wavy directions for reversing which are the province of the orange-clad dudes who stand on the tarmac in front of aircraft, brandishing ping-pong bats with mystic fervour. It seems to have worked, the snail was gone this morning, and has hopefully reached cruising altitude in someone else's garden.
Tomorrow, by way of further in the category of Grievous Bodily Harm, our department is having a soccer afternoon. Pleading knees with dislocation auto-destructs, I shall watch enthusiastically from the sidelines. With a camera. And an eye to future blackmail. Heh.
It was a good weekend, but generally I'm a bit stiff and painful. At the Fiasco game on Saturday I managed to fall over the dog, turning my ankle and collapsing into my chair at the dining room table. I have a large and painful bruise on my right forearm, just below the elbow, and two smaller ones in long lines across my right thigh and left shin. I am completely unable to reconstruct the actual position which caused this particular constellation of klutz-marks: as far as I can work out I must have been carrying my left leg in my right hand. Most mysterious. I blame the dog.
The soreness is not assisted by the fact that I finally sorted out the vegetable planters on Sunday, this entailing lugging eight bags of compost around the show, as well as assorted digging, raking, weeding, hauling, planting, watering and disposing of the corpses. (The winter's remnants of vegetable foliage). Highlight of the afternoon: filling up the watering can and attempting to water random pots of things. No water came out. On peering interestedly into the spout, I was met with the waving eye-stalks of a confused and desperate snail, who'd apparently climbed up there from the inside and stuck. I used the trowels to send him those arm-wavy directions for reversing which are the province of the orange-clad dudes who stand on the tarmac in front of aircraft, brandishing ping-pong bats with mystic fervour. It seems to have worked, the snail was gone this morning, and has hopefully reached cruising altitude in someone else's garden.
Tomorrow, by way of further in the category of Grievous Bodily Harm, our department is having a soccer afternoon. Pleading knees with dislocation auto-destructs, I shall watch enthusiastically from the sidelines. With a camera. And an eye to future blackmail. Heh.
