Last night I arrived back home just before midnight, having consumed a bit of wine but not enough to blur my judgment or my vision. I put my key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door a few inches. Immediately, with the certainty that one has when one is the only person who is ever in one's house, I knew that something was awry. My doormat had moved.
I was absolutely sure that I hadn't moved it as my OCD would prevent me from leaving the house without it in position. So the first explanation offered to me by my brain was that someone with a key or a skeleton copy had entered my flat, moved my doormat and then relocked the door. I was unclear which side of the door they now were on. With caution and my heart performing a lively celidh, I opened my front door a few inches further. Ahead of me was a dark and unfamiliar shadow. I prepared to yell. And then I laughed. Because it was a bay tree.
The donor was my lovely dad who, knowing I was hankering after one, had been in the vicinity of my flat, found a healthy looking specimen at the garden centre, driven it over, let himself in with his key and left it in the middle of my hall, positioned on the doormat so as not to soil my carpet with... soil. It was an adorable surprise, and a perfect one. It might not have been so perfect if I'd died of shock, or given it a rusty mawashi geri (aka a vigorous roundhouse kick from my karate days) - but fortunately, things worked out as planned. It's nice when that happens, isn't it.
In other news, my hobble was still rather too pronounced this morning, so I was advised to visit the nurse in our office building. She examined my (now swollen) foot, diagnosed me with either a sprained or torn ligament over the cuboid bone, applied some arnica, wrapped it in a large bandage, told me to keep it elevated if possible and take 400mg of ibuprofen three times a day for the next three days. Livid. I've been waiting all my life for an excuse to remain horizontal and not exercise, and now one comes along less than three weeks before I have to run 10 kilometers. It's not that I won't be able to complete the run as I should be back on track by then, but I was hoping to up my pace a tad during training, and that now looks unlikely. Still, at least I have a dramatic-sounding excuse.
Finally, a big shout (of rage) out to the tattooed elderly gentleman on the Northern Line this evening who sat down, ate a bag of Quavers, calmly and deliberately placed the empty packet on the floor by his feet, and disembarked shortly afterwards. Every fibre in my being wanted to shout after him that he'd forgotten something as he walked off, but I couldn't get up the nerve. Perhaps I was too weak as a result of my foot injury. Once he'd gone, I admitted to myself that the charitable thing to do now would be to pick up the empty packet and throw it in a bin above ground. I was all set to carry out this selfless act when a woman took the vacated seat and put her heavy rucksack on the crisp packet, preventing me from performing my good deed. So I left having done nothing. Bloody hell, littering drives me spastic. I just finished reading a fascinating article in Prospect about how, by enforcing everything with rules, Big Government basically ensures that people develop no moral values of their own, and that if there isn't a sign or a law telling them what to do or not to do, people have no obligation to do anything. I was nodding frantically and making 'Mmm' noises when I was reading it on the way to work this morning, so wholeheartedly did I agree. I freaking wish we all had some greater sense of personal responsibility and civic pride. Maybe 2012 will start the ball rolling. We live in hope.
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