I think something wrong is happening with me. The wrongness may have been brought on by the menopause or something, but today I am strangely walking about the world in a softer, perhaps even a non-aggressive, manner.
The stair carpet, for example. It tried to kill me, and I merely sighed as I tripped over
the hanging thread, lurched forward to swing off the banister and narrowly avoid putting my head
through the picture window at the dog leg to the stairs.
In other ways, too, I have noticed a gentling in my reactions towards ordinary irritations. Those routine disturbances, like the office ceiling falling in and the oven door (or what's left of it) sinking its iron tooth into my leg, then tearing out a chunk of my jeans as I pass.
I am sure I would have bit my knuckles, ground my teeth, or kicked the crap out of the oven door (or what's left of it) before beating my fists in despair at my solitude and uselessness to do or change anything about my decaying state of life in this house.
But in these uncommon days I seem to have become more resigned to the mash, mess, and loss, which I can only put down to changes in me. The house is certainly no better. I have bound up the tap that leans with a rubber band, wedged a plant pot against the door that won't shut, banged another nail in the doorhandle, and stuck duct tape over the hanging threads on the worn, torn stair carpet. Maybe I am become resigned to it all, have given up the fight on it, and have surrendered myself to the wobble on the kitchen floorboards and the garden door handle that always comes off in your hand.
That would be sad.
So I have promised myself. Next time the oven door leans over to rip a strip from my old clothing, I shall turn round and aim a kick at what's left of it, then go on the rampage to threaten the doorhandle with two more nails and a hammer.