Clumsiness is the word: apopaclypse now.
By tomorrow, I think I'll be able to speak properly; the exhaustion of the weekend is abating and I've got some antibiotics to clear up the added extras.
Every time I look at anything in this house it falls over or drops off the shelf, all by itself.
I'm walking through a sea of socks and scarves on the floor; two pots just jumped off a pile of boxes and landed with a crash on the lino. Everything has slumped; the kitchen is festooned in crumbs and dried leaves from various vegetables.
The shoes are in disarray, coats slip gently off the coat pile and land folded in extraordinary shapes on the rest of the things that glided down there earlier.
Even my hair is a mess. No matter how hard I tuck wisps of it into the fierce plait that I've designed to stop it from crawling about all over my face, is slips out and laughs at me like a mad puppy that has escaped its lead.
My computer jumped off a pile of books and landed with a crash on the carpet this morning.
Plastic bags crackle quietly before whooshing off the side in the kitchen.
And I've got toothache.
I hate to moan.