Domesticated Violence

I am exceptionally handy around the flat. I can change all the light bulbs I can reach (read: the one in my desk lamp). I can get things from high shelves if I stand on a chair. I know how to clog up a drain. I do most of the washing up out of the goodness of my heart, OCD and having found beetles in the past has nothing to do with it.

I cannot wear a skirt again until the giant bruise on my knee heals. Unless I go out and buy more dark tights. All my dark tights got holes in them, I don't know how his happened, but I suspect that drinking more rum would help make sure it never happened again. I hear these things cancel out.

I finally got my bravery back after the last kitchen fiasco. I had cleaned the curtain, dried it, and folded it up neatly in one of the cupboards. But it bothered me, it needed to be back in its proper place.

I knew the step ladder was not safe for people who weigh more than the average seven-year-old, but I'd skipped breakfast and lunch. I figured it was worth the risk. In hindsight I should probably not have tried it with heels, but they're so slimming.

I got to the fourth step before the ladders started to slip. I froze. It stopped. I took a deep breath and slowly started to move back down. Our windows are huge and the curtains are long. It caught round my heel and I missed the step completely. I twisted like a cat (only much more elegantly) and attempted to jump forwards off the ladder. My ankle caught the last rung. I landed on my knees.

Two seconds later, the ladders landed on me. I doubt my knee is the only thing that's bruised. But at least I didn't break a heel.

You'd think one of the guys would be a gentleman and fix this for me, but only if you'd never met them.