Benjamina Buttoness

Today, on the way home, I managed to slip on a wet floor and bash my knee. I thought it was ok, but then it turned out not to be. So instead of swimming, I’m sat in the reading nook of our front room, typing by candlelight and blocking out the sound of my old, clackety keyboard with Sia –so yes, wallowing – with one dog asleep across my feet.

I’ve iced my knee. It would be so much more fun if by that I meant like a cake (or oddly kinky. I dunno), but unfortunately it just means I dripped water all over the place. Just another part of a strangely off-kilter few days, in which I lost my house keys; got unduly angry during a phone call with my mother and haven’t managed to shake the residue of that rage (not angry AT my mother, I hasten to add. Angry about a subject that isn’t something I’ll be putting on a public blog); and managed to lose, damage, and then find my passport.

Aside from that, though, training has gone well for the past week. None of the previous week’s fatigue – just a steady feeling of getting stronger and faster. Which makes today all the more frustrating. I know missing a day isn’t really going to cause a backslide of my fitness levels, but it feels that way.

It seems to be a week of regression, though. On Sunday I went, by myself (lone-wolf status bestowed courtesy of Coffee Monster’s busted ankle) to watch a Tim Burton double-bill at the best independent cinema in London (the Prince Charles Cinema, in case you were wondering. Just off Leicester Square – check it out).

Edward Scissorhands is one of my favourite films of all time. I love the music, love the colours, the photography and, of course, the story, in all its melancholy, comedic glory. Batman was a happy extra viewing (and just HOW MUCH pop culture did I miss in that film when I was a kid? Jerry Hall, anyone? Prince?), but I would have been happy to just watch Alan Arkin & co do their thing on the big screen. It was very pleasant to spend a Sunday afternoon with a beer, snuggled up in a massive scarf and warm coat, watching a good, familiar film. Being there alone took me back to my first months in London nearly six years ago, when I would do a lot of things by myself, for lack of a circle of friends. So…  24 again.

On Monday I realised I was wearing a geeky film t-shirt/long-sleeved shirt combination, listening to Alanis Morrisette and quietly seething about the weekend’s phone call. That puts me in my teens.

Today, I discovered that someone I work with had grown up in the town that I lived in until the age of 8. We spent a while comparing memories, me trying to figure out what I definitely remembered and what I’d made up. These are memories from ages eight and below, and they were all fairly accurate: road names, routes, where buildings are. Where I couldn’t remember the name of a place, I could describe it well enough to be recognised. I also remembered a lot of the events that went with those places. It’s a bit scary how much a six-year-old can pick up on and then not forget.  So yep. Regression.

Grosse Pointe Blank
“You can never go home again, Oatman… but I guess you can still shop there.”
Oh yeah, Alan Arkin is in this one, too.

By tomorrow morning I will be unable to dress myself and will be gurgling in a French/Flemish/English mix. Probably.

In other news: I have bought a copy of IronPlanner, which is already turning out to be helpful. I have signed up for this year’s Swimathon. And I’ve contacted a place about IPL because it would be nice not to have to waste hours of my life on grooming. Getting up to go swimming and then going ‘Oh, hell. Legs,’ is never fun at 6am, but being that I’m untannable and dark-haired, it’s happens Every. Single. Time.

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