Right! Blog.

Oh my word. I've started (either in my head or in various electronic forms) about a gazillion blogs since last I posted. But none of them have made it this far. Poor, unloved non-blogs.

It all started a looooooooong while back as I was cycling home one evening. It was about 10.30 and I was skirting the Loughborough Estate (non-sequeter: prospective new flatmate today is currently living in Loughborough, and might move into my flat in Loughborough Junction...oh the irony!), just minutes from home, and it struck me that I was experiencing one of those "isn't this ace?" moments. It was mild. The road was dead. I was cycling my dear Billomena. The birds were singing (which is weird, but very London, and made it feel like it was about 5am, which somehow was even cooler). And I was loving it. Absolutely loving it. I can still feel that feeling now. Brilliant. Made me look forward to more similar moments.

If only I knew then what I know now!

Lots has happened. In its own way. I forget why now, but at some point after that wonderful moment cycling home I had a strange acceptance that my time with Billomena was coming to a close. I don't know why. Something just felt like it was coming to an end. I had no intention of just giving up on her while she was still going strong but I had a sense she'd be going her own way at some point soon. I expected her to get stolen or something along those lines. She actually got her front fork squashed. Cue next story...

It was a Thursday evening and I was cycling to the pub. Nothing extraordinary about the set up, except a bus driver decided to wave a motorcyclist across my right of way causing a collision between me and said motorcyclist. Billomena's front fork got squashed (given her condition, that effectively wrote her off - getting it fixed, even if it was an option, would almost definitely cost more than was worth spending on her). I got a sprained wrist and some bruises. The motorcyclist was unpleasant and rode off without leaving his details. A pedestrian and fellow cyclist stopped and gave statements to the police (after the cyclist had taken control of the situatoin and got the motorcyclist's number plate as I was entirely incapable of doing any of the above at that point). I hobbled Billomena to one of the Accenture offices (which I happened to be very close to) and went to the pub for lots of hugs and support.

Then I went to Tunbridge Wells for the first time ever and sat in a park. With friends. And read stories from a book I think by AA Milne. It was marvellous. And then I did some massage because No Hands is fab and I could safely massage without hurting my wrist. Super marvellous.

But more was yet to come. 4 days after spraining my wrist I sustained 3 fractures to my left distal radius and displaced my hand. No, not *misplaced*, although that, too, would have been very careless. I'd been on my roof with Donal "favourite roofer even" Doherty, checking the work he'd done. Which was fab. I was climbing back into the house through the bedroom window. My footing slipped. I did a "Superman" into the floor with my left hand. Sinething cracked, my hand went wonky and there was a lot of pain. Cue A&E, x-rays, morphine, orthopaedic consultants and being given a litre of saline before I could go home because they didn't have any vegan food to hand.

I'm healing. But it's taking a while. I can only type with one hand. I've been signed off work. All the usual Tigger things are out. And sanity is being held on to by the slightest of grips. So that's the state of the nation.