My struggle to ascend

Alas. Still no Internet connection at home, so still no regular blog posts; no watching of my favourite shows; no surfing for hours at a time keeping up to date with all the new lesbian hoo-ha at AfterEllen and no regular e-mail checking (not that I'm too good at that anyway).

Still,living at number 77 is proving to be fun. There's all the attendant experiences that come from moving into a new and unfamiliar property with someone you've never lived with before, and my current issue is something I haven't had to deal with for a long, long time. A towering problem, one might say. A hill to climb; an uphill battle. That's right. I'm talking about stairs. I haven't lived in a house with stairs for a good five years, and I just seem to be completely un-equipped to deal with the concept of ascending at an angle of x degrees by the power of foot locomotion. I've already ripped off half a toe-nail by mis-judging a few steps, launched my face at the wonderfully maroon carpet at speed on a number of occasions and been reduced to using my hands as well as my feet once or twice. Most memorably, I seem to have a wonderful blind spot regarding the existence of the final three steps when i descend, causing me to fly past the dining room doorway and into the front hall in a slap-stick comedy manner. Although, I do remember, the last time I did that I managed to catch myself on the banisters with my elbows, a most athletic feat.

I don't know what's wrong with me, I really don't. Ninety-nine percent...well, okay...ninety-five percent...okay, okay...eighty percent of everyday tasks, I have no problem with. I can usually feed myself, dress myself (although, not well: two years of living in a uniform twelve hours a day will do that to a girl, especially one who had no fashion sense to begin with. Now, the only things I can be trusted to co-ordinate are my pajamas and my slippers), wash myself and perform hundreds of mundane daily events without fear of injury or, you know, horrendous embarrassment. Which, frankly, I think is worse. There's nothing more horrifying than starting the descent as dignified as Audrey Hepburn and finishing with a comedic flourish that would have a place in every slap-stick movie ever made.

GP is quite used to having to run from one room to another after hearing a horrendous crash, only to find me crumpled in some inexplicable position with no serious injuries and no idea how I'd come to be there, holding triumphantly to an unbroken vase/television/kitten that in and of itself is, again, inexplicable. It's like my tremendous talent for holding onto an inanimate object, only to have it become oddly mobile in my hands, wiggling and slipping from my grasp so it can enjoy that one moment of freedom before smashing on the floor into itty bitty pieces. Many a glass/mug/plate/bowl has experienced it's last moments in that manner.

Now...what on earth did I start this post to write? Any idea?

No...I don't have a clue, either.