After two weeks of swanning around with my hand either swathed in a bandage or delightful skin coloured splint, I’ve finally recovered enough to dispose of any type of wrist support. My wonderful osteopath has done a brilliant job manipulating my joint back to normalcy, and although I can’t quite sling around a twenty five kilogram plate the way I used to, I can write without looking like I’m using a hand belonging to a mannequin, and carry an average sized paperback book without wincing. I call that success.

Any routine I might have had has gone right out the window, any kind of posting regime gone, cooking, cleaning - even writing appointments in my diary has just become totally impossible to keep up with. Which resulted in a little stress while filling in my timesheet for work, but hey, I’ve been injured, dammit.

Adding to the domestic upheaval is the arrival of a guy on the scene (my scene?) - previously mentioned here as the guy from the bikeshop - and the feelings of my eight year old daughter about any kind of relationship not exclusively involving her and me. Her words? “I feel like there’s a love triangle, and I’m not included”. That was before any kind of dating action had even happened. But last night I made him dinner, so I guess things must be progressing. It’s strange, but kind of nice, and I’m trying hard not to expect/think too much.

The coming week involves getting the pedals on my new bike changed over, since I’ve decided I can’t quite come to terms with learning to ride with clips so soon after hurting my wrist, running, and getting my diet back on track after not being able to chop anything, or cook properly.

But now it’s time to take pizza out of the oven, and then read my new discount Thomas Harris book, probably scaring myself stupid before going to bed. What could be better?

Today I’m loving: Bali - only three weeks away!