Falling Down

Note to self: get back yard powerwashed this weekend.

I went out to the bin yesterday to dutifully recycle some glass bottles. I took one step out the door and skidded into a clumsily executed crouch. Ten out of ten for degree of difficulty, but not so much for artistic impression. I remained on my knees for a good few minutes after I fell. Mainly because I had caused myself a fair degree of pain in my right knee and my right wrist and getting up from that position was requiring some serious concentration. Is this a sign that I am getting old? My knee and my wrist are still throbbing, 24 hours later.

The cause of the acrobatics was the slimy patio which hasn't been washed down this year and is consequently wearing the latest in green algae. No doubt my nosy neighbour, who seems to have a high definition telescope trained on the back of my house from her bedroom window, will have put it down to the empty bottle of wine I was clutching at the time.

If she saw me again this afternoon, she'll be on the phone to Alcoholics Anonymous. I took the dog out, between thunderstorms, or so I thought. Five minutes down the hill and another downpour began. Dodging under some trees, I missed my footing -- again -- and went down on my backside in a less than graceful slide. I now have a lovely skid mark on my green skirt and the abiding memory of a knot of sniggering schoolkids as they passed.

I wonder can I get fitted with stabilisers?

A Romantic Heroine Writes...

It would, as they say, take the skin off a badger's backside out there. I have just taken the dog for her daily bark and widdle and it is cold enough to almost make one forget about global warming. I wore my russian-style fur hat which usually only gets broken out in December and I spent the walk wishing I had dug out the woolly gloves as well. I haven't really worn a coat for about five years: the winter hasn't been really cold enough to merit more than a couple of fleeces and a chunky jumper. Yet already this feels like it might be time to get that new lining put in my decade old cashmere number. It's one of my favourite pieces of clothing -- floor length grey cashmere wool, bell sleeves and a hood lined in black velvet. It makes me feel like a romantic heroine, or at the very least, that dame from the Scottish Widows ad. All I need is the dashing hero to go with it and I'll be set.

Ah well, you can't have everything.