Third blog entry, and yet another headline beginning with “black”. No, this is not an obsession; it’s pure coincidence. Really.
I have, in what we shall call a laundry-related incident, given myself a black eye.
I wasn’t even doing the laundry, she cries. I was only picking up a sock. One sock.
It fell off the heap of the unsorted on the bed. I bent to pick it up. The curtains of my flowing blonde locks, as a journalist once described them (they are at least flowing, as I’m growing my hair long again; blonde is relative and unevenly-brownish more accurate) swung forward, cutting off all peripheral vision and, apparently, depth perception. There was an audible thunk as the edge of my eye-orbit bone hit the top edge of the rocking chair. I spent a quarter of an hour lying down with a cold-pack on my eye, in the hopes this would do something to obviate the inevitable.
It’s a delicate, ladylike black eye, a quarter-circle of a black eye, not the impressive schoolyard battle-trophy that I remember the boys sporting from time to time in my youth. It does take some explaining, though. If only I could manfully mutter, “Defending a lady’s honour,” or “airbag”, or even, “dognose” which is something that happens to people: they get a joyfully-leaping snout in the eye. But, “Sock fell off the bed. Rocking chair.” Ohhh. How embarrassing. “Chronic oafism,” the Spouse says, which is not very consoling.
But, I was just into the local bookstore to pick up a book (Aaronvitch, Midnight Riot, aka Rivers of London, which by the way I have just finished – great combination of Scotland-yard mystery and horror-fantasy and very well-written – and the latest issue of Archaeology): the clerk and I ended up staring at one another, then breaking into laughter. She has a mirror-image eye, an ice-and-puppy incident. It must be going around.