Dislocation

I was sitting on the patio in the sunshine, it was my birthday, I had eaten a great quantity of coffee and walnut cake and drunk two mugs of coffee, there was very possibly sugar rush and caffeine high. I was bragging about my fall and how quickly I had recovered from the jolt to my spine and the bash to my head (which has left a distinctive little Harry Potter lightning-shaped scar on my forehead). The gods, having nothing better to do and feeling, perhaps, irritated by the number of apples that have ended up rotting sweetly on the "compost" heap at the end of the garden, decided to kick in and give me a bad back, weeks after the event. So now the base of my spine is inflamed, or something, and the osteopath says that I should not sit, especially at a desk, for long periods, and I should go out for "several" short, brisk walks each day so that the disc settles back. Or something. And as I sit here, I look out and it is raining. The writing has suffered a bit of a dislocation also. The gods (I knew this already), do not like interruptions, and when there are too many losing the plot is as easy as losing your way on the mountains when the mist comes down; and you have run out of Kendal Mint Cake; and you feel as though you could just lie down and sleep; but you know that this is not really an option. So you go on.