Stumbling in Flats

I have been bouncing off the walls the last couple of days. Quite literally. It started in work, where I walked into the kitchen door three times. Just for good measure, my hands have decided to suddenly let go of things at random or not grasp them at all and my feet aren’t working properly.

I had a day off work yesterday, but rather than hiding away with Jeremy Kyle and the Loose Women, I pushed myself out the house and went off for some retail therapy and a determination not to let the symptoms get the better of me. Bad idea?

It started so well. I navigated the supermarket, dodging the Jenga towers of Christmas chocolate tins and super-value loo roll packs. Went to pick up my newspaper and failed four times. Looking around me, I pretended I meant to do it, undecided as I surely was about which paper to choose. Think it worked. Got to the checkout where the terminally bored girl sighed loudly as I fumbled with my purse. And fumbled. Couldn’t open the darn zip or find my loyalty card.

Leaving with a heavy bag of shopping, I stumbled, knocked into the automatic doors and dropped my keys. Undefeated, and after being helped by the Big Issue seller standing outside, I made my way to the coffee shop. Deep breath. Order a coffee and a poppy seed cake for being so brave. Turn round with my tray, shopping bag heaved onto my shoulder. I can definitely do this. But somehow, within five minutes, a three-prams-and-a-double-buggy assault course had formed behind me. And the table I wanted was past them. Ok. Co-ordinate feet, hold on to the tray very, very tightly and do not bounce off the cake cabinet.

I must have looked distinctly demented and the mothers gripped their pram handles a little tighter. But I made it. I ate my cake, drank my coffee and watched the world go by. And when I got up to leave, I didn’t knock anything off the table or drop my bags. But someone had definitely moved the door….