Not me, the kitchen ceiling. To be fair we bought it like this. The plasterer is coming today and will be here for a while. The whole thing’s coming down, he’s doing the walls and I was thinking of asking if he could plaster the floor too so as to save a protracted What To Put On The Floor debate.
The blog is going to go all WIP on you this week on account of stress needing an outlet. There’s going to be dust, there’s even more heaps of disarray than usual and I have already needed to start the Aberlour Single Malt (but not this morning, obviously).
Even on 40 year old knees…
I have a few posts I have been meaning to do:
Blind Sex Pest Goldfish Seeks New Chaste Home
No Cardigans with Maxi Dresses SamCam
“Progressivity” ain’t a word George (Gideon) Osborne
Exactly Wot is this “Recycled” Money of which you speak Health Man?
Premier League Football starts: the World’s mouth gapes
But today I will share instead how I came to be dressing my wounds in Betfred’s shop circa 19.43 yesterday evening, whilst Elhamri broke out of the stalls and galloped down the course, delaying the start of the 19.45 at Windsor (which is a ridiculous figure of eight course) wherein I had backed Imaginary Diva (on good advice) who eventually placed third (8/1 e/w = a minor contribution to dinner).
See the thing is, I can see how I might improve my aesthetics to comply with diva criteria, but mostly I can’t quite pull it all together. Take yesterday. I was enjoying wearing a dress, for once. Normally skirts and wotnot are a bit tricky because I am always getting into scrapes: bashing myself with my wicked sharp metal bike pedals leaving bruises and cuts on my shins, getting scratched by the dog on his regular leg tangles when a cat is in sight and bashing myself on assorted fixtures and fittings. There are probably about ten days a year when my legs are fit for public consumption. Anyway yesterday was one such. I had on a nice French black linen shift dress and had added a Minnie Mouse red and white spotted silk necktie. My footwear was not flip-flops! I had received compliments and I was looking forward to popping it back on and going out for supper after my run. let’s also gloss over the bare facts that although my legs were on good form, my arms looked like I had been self-harming (iron burn and drinking blister), but you can never have it all you know.
At about 18.15 I popped out for a quick run with the dog and my friend (leaving starving Guv’nor on the sofa urging speed which was fine because I am trying to effect a faster pace anyway). I suppose the rest doesn’t take much figuring out and my dignity would probably preclude a detailed account of painfully going down (like a sack of shit). Suffice to say the material ingredients of my downfall included running with the dog on the lead, a dodgy drain and uneven concrete. Not paying full attention was certainly a factor. Going for a run is meant to induce a meditative scenario and I was anything but. I was still in my head and not in my body so my body took a big fall to remind me of my failings.
Notwithstanding the humiliation, I did not cry and we did a bit more limping/running but once home I had to jump in the shower where much stinging commenced. We have at home child knee-sized plasters but I needed one the size of a saucer so I had to go to the shop and get the necessary (plus antiseptic anaesthetic cream) which I liberally applied in the bookmakers. I thought that would be a bit more health and safety than in the restaurant (where an even more starving Guv’nor was now waiting) and would be killing two birds with one stone which is always a good thing isn’t it?
This morning, in addition to the arm injuries, I now have one well smashed up knee, a scraped one and a slightly unhappy, but much recovered pair of palms. Ho hum. That’s blown dresses until 2011.