Nightclothes and all.

Tripped on a hose. These sandals I run around in are loose, and I’m also getting to that age when my feet fail to lift to the height my brain tells me they’re lifting. It’s quite curious…My brain says I stepped over it, but the foot fails to clear it, because of the toe of the sandal: but I can’t blame the sandal. My brain, every sense I’ve got, tells me the foot, sandal and all, ,will easily clear the obstacle—and it won’t, because my foot hasn’t lifted the height my brain told it to.

I tell you, age is a bitch. I think the same as I always did, I do as I always have, and now and again the body just fails to do what it’s supposed to do. I suppose I need some sandals that don’t have as much toe, but what I could really use is a 20 year old physique. Ain’t it a shame youth is wasted on the young?

Anyway, I fell on the rock edge, dinged my wrist, soaked an arm and shoulder, and scared hell out of the fish, who’d come to be fed. They don’t know what landed in their pond, but they’re sure they don’t want breakfast at that particular spot.

TO make matters nicer, I’d dosed the pond yesterday with SludgeRemover, which is, basically, blackish sewage.

Yum.