In recovery

Thanks to yesterday's marathon seven hour drive. One side of my body remains paralysed with motorway. The spasms on the other side I attribute to the 110% industrial strength coffee backing up in my arteries.

Consequently I do nothing more than alternatively slump and twitch myself around the house. Occasionally I drape my barely coherent carcass over a variety of household goods and kitchen furnitures. That process is called pretending to do stuff and look like I care.

It can account for the fact that my online chronicle of survival will today display only a collection of kid tennis shoes.


I have turfed these out a cupboard, abandoned them on a carpet, and left them there, where everyone can use them to trip over.

For one fleeting moment I fancied I might compose a blog entry about the hazards of sorting out a matching pair of tennis shoes when you have three kids with identity issues, the same shoe size, and two minutes to go before the tennis lessons start.

But then I realised the post-M42 traumatic stress had begun so I went to lie down instead.