Death of a thousand cuts

[flemmings]

I believe I was foolish enough to say something about being able to sleep in Friday morning. Was then sent a text at 10 p.m. on Thursday asking me to do someone's morning shift. Yes, well.

At work I scraped my knuckles on a sharp edge, was bitten by an invisible something that caused a large swelling on my forearm, and developed the usual winter fissure under the nail of my right forefinger. (Always the same finger, and only one finger, caused by combi of heat and frequent handwashing; exquisitely painful, and nothing makes it close up again until spring.) Callus on foot from orthotics cracked, making me limp all day; knees reacted to rain by aching ferociously on every step; high fibre lunch involving lentils led to the usual high fibre fallout.

Thus today has been devoted to languishing on sofa reading Stephen Booth, all of whose characters talk alike. OTOH went for a walk in the afternoon's pale November blues and sun, and found a copy of Dick Francis' The Edge at Doug Miller, which no one here has, including the library. So not a total bust.

Comments

[incandescens]

Ow ow ow ow ow *ow*. Much sympathy.

[flemmings.livejournal.com]

Some malign influence at work. My co-worker kindly took the dirty diapers out to the pickup area in back and slammed the door onto her face, leaving a bruise. I'm not sure *how* she managed that, mind, but it's evidence that self-harm was in the air.