Diagnosis: clown

I burned myself last night. I was half reclining on the sofa, like a Roman, and spilled hot tea all over my chest.

I quickly removed my T-shirt and jumper, and got in the shower and poured cool (but not freezing) water at myself while checking the NHS website to check I was doing the right thing.

Twenty minutes later I stopped, climbed out, and resigned myself to a topless evening, like George Costanza on the shitter.

This life has been an increasingly klutzy one. Pre lockdown, I went on a spate of leaving things on trains, from glasses and hats all the way up to backpacks. Now we can’t go anywhere, I’m limiting myself to smashing receptacles and tripping over things, like Kramer ending every scene with a perfect few seconds of slapstick.

I wonder if I should see a doctor, but I’m worried I’ll be diagnosed as a clown.

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