OW!!

Might have been a little presumptive when I said I had gotten away without pain after schlepping loads of earth.
Turns out I don't have miraculous recovery time, I have __appalling__ recovery time in that it takes an extra day for my body to even twig what i've just done before hurting me to make sure that I don't think about doing anything remotely like that ever again.

It's amazing how many things you need leg muscles for...

which one is tom and which is barbara?

Spent a lovely day yesterday schlepping large bits of metal, bits of wood and quite a lot of earth around as, along with the 'Cornish Rambler (tm)', helped some friends with the really quite massive job of re-vamping their farm house.

In re-counting the day, it sounds like it could come directly out of a double-page spread in the Observer Magazine. The only thing that would make it more ideal is if they were called Jacinda and Minty.

Must have shovelled at _least_ 30 tons of earth. Well ... may be not quite but still certainly what could be described as _some_ earth.

Got some very nice eggs from their re-claimed battery chickens (there must be a duracell joke in here somewhere) that I had this mornig with some very nice bacon and sausages.

Some odd twinges today but otherwise feel remarkably without crippling pain. Which is nice.


Quite good really, all things considered. I've been promising/threatening to help them for about the last 2 years, so glad that I could finally get there.

Numpty a go-go

This has been quite the week for proving that I am a complete arse-wit.

Last Friday I ran off to Tesco's in a last minute dash to go and get a bottle of wine and some nibbles. As I returned home, my pocket felt oddly and disturbingly light.

Yes, I had left home without my keys. I thought for a moment that I might have dropped the in Tesco but no, lifting up the letterbox flap revealed my keys, where I normally leave them glistening with almost indecent glee. Arse.

I've had my own place for about 3 years now and one of the things that I am continually paranoid about is leaving home without my keys. This leads to a practically 'rainman'-esque performance of continually patting my pocket, checking my keys on the way out of the door. But not tonight. So, sheepishly, I had to phone my parents ten miles away to drive over with my spare key.


Eventually let back in with an air of "bloody hell, that was embarassing. what an eejit".


Fast forward to Saturday. I went to Truro to drink and eat lots in celebration of a friend's birthday. Being a sensible sort of what-not, I removed my car keys and just took my door keys with me when I took the train into the teeming metropolis. At the end of the day, I wound my way home through the increasing cold.

Walking down the lane to my house, I picked my keys out of my pocket ready to unlock the door only to behold: shite. Wrong keys. I had once again locked myself out.


I've managed 3 years not to lock myself out and now, twice in two days. I was now, in the words of my ever-supportive sister, a massive twat desperately looking for attention.