Archive | 10:58

It’s The Fall That’ll Kill Ya

17 Dec
trip and fall down carefully

Image by jimmiehomeschoolmom via Flickr

…No it’s not – my big brother tells me it’s the sudden stop at the end that does the damage. 

My day started out great when Tory Boy called for a chat at seven-fifteen a.m. – the doctor appears to have sorted his sleep issues; he was up at six-thirty and wide-awake enough to chat.  Then it was time to see Spud off for his last day of term. 

As he put on his shoes he suddenly remembered that he wanted a gift for his teacher.  I ran upstairs to grab a card and gift bag and downstairs to grab an emergency box of chocolates (one of those helpful gender-neutral standby gifts you can always find a use for after Christmas).  I so wish I wasn’t careful with the electricity…the hallway was dark and I charged straight into Spud’s school bag and flew face-first into the floor.

I lay there in the dark, blubbing like a baby, all the while thinking I looked like a starter chalk outline kit; all Spud could do was bleat an appalled, ‘Mum!  Mum!’  I snarled at him to put on the light and my brother (who is visiting us) helped me up once the dogs had stopped licking me.

MY CHILDREN SHOULD SKIP THIS PARAGRAPH: I wasn’t really hurt, if I don’t count my sudden and pronounced limp, and carpet burns (sigh – I remember when carpet burns could be collected in a fun way).  No affront to my dignity because I haven’t had any for years.

OKAY, BOYS: IT’S SAFE TO LOOK AGAIN.  Spud went off to school in a subdued mood.  Having an artistic temperament*, and not wishing to hurt his mother more than is teenagerly needful, he was upset by what happened.  He sent me a text – ‘sorry’ – and I replied with a cheerful ‘Well at least I’ve got something to blog about this morning’.  His ‘ok’ that came back tells me his last day at school will be miserable.  Remember, he’s a hair shirt kinda guy.

He is also a little indignant: I have been nagging for months about where he leaves his bag in the hall on his way in and out of the house (it stays in his room but he has morning and evening rituals that necessitate the leaving of large objects where people can fall over them) and he had actually made an effort this morning to put it out of harm’s way, but I came at it from an unusual angle.  It’s not his fault if he does as he’s told and someone gets hurt.



I really enjoyed last night’s Royal Variety Performance.  Here’s a clip:


This week’s Big Tent prompt was somewhat convoluted; here’s an extract:

 The form is comprised of two sections. One is titled “The Dead Man and …” and the second “More About the Dead Man and … .” All lines are written as sentence lines and enjambment matters quite a bit. The first two lines generally turn back on each other. The two versions seem to discover or expose different things about the Dead Man, one more internal in nature, the other external.

It didn’t grab me so I did my own thing:


The Dead Man And Me

The Dead Man has nothing to say.
I much prefer it that way.
I like my corpses mute;
don’t you?



There’s a series of three linked poems on the South African seasons on my other blog:

Please pop over to take a look!




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