Giraffe Legs

I went to the shop today- what a victory. My legs are like new-born giraffe legs; they have been screwed on in the wrong direction. The shopping bag felt really heavy and I had to forget the four tins of beans for 90 pence (or whatever).
Luckily I seem to have missed most of the Tory conference coverage on TV. I have seen the occasional glimpse of their navy-blue fantasy on a silent screen, and the occasional smug white well-fed face mouthing nonsense like a goldfish with its earnest no-message.
One blessing is to forbid myself from writing any more post-it notes with instructions about what to to when I'm better. That wasn't helping, and when it reduced me to tears I decided to stop.
God bless lifeline phone calls from my daughters and Martin. Normal reassuring voices cut through the cacophony, shut down the sirens and piped in the outside world, which has managed to survive suspiciously well without me.
I told myself a dark short story, in which the billionaires of the world did away with us all to make life easier for themselves. But being psychopaths, they eventually did away with each other (what to do with all those guns!). The end.