Physlexia

I've had days where nothing ever fits into my mouth except my food, stray insects and - sadly - Milly's tongue when I was bending down to pat Skipper and she seized an opportunity to stop licking her clacker and dash past and slurp me across the kisser before I could stop, sniff the air, feel my face and wonder, "Who just farted?" - but today I've had a Physlexic day.

Physlexia is debilitating, often humiliating and certainly time wasting ailment that results in nothing I touch ending up in the right spot, sometimes not even on the fourth or seventh try.

It is probably the universe's way of throwing a little Karma - and unwanted dog lick - my way for having a shameful propensity to guffaw loudly and inappropriately at people tripping over, falling down or being pooped on by birds. I'd like to think it's because it happens to me so often as well but if I ever catch an episode of 'Australia's Funniest Home Videos' a bit of wee often slips out and that's certainly not anything to be proud of.

Back to my case of Physlexia. This affliction is not a general descriptor, but one that applies to several hours of severe uncoordination performing tasks that can usually be done with my eyes closed. Therefore, it doesn't relate to lack of sporting ability when balls thrown or caught are required, but everyday stuff like hanging out the washing.

My OCD tendencies usually reign supreme during this mundane chore - undies, bras and socks at the back so that any surprise visitors aren't treated to a breeze-filled side-show of the Lockett family's underthings; then a line or two of Sapphire's clothes, adult clothes and finally the large items like towels and sheets. The trouble is, if it's windy, the sheets billow out across the outdoor table and have been known to turn a surprised guest into an instant mummy for a second or two before whipping back into position and resulting only in a surprised expression and a spilt cup of tea.

With the smalls, I usually grab six in my left hand and six pegs in my right and get cracking. Trouble is today Physlexia ensured that I'd drop a peg - bend down to retrieve it - straighten up and a bra would fall out of my hands. I'd bend down again to pick up the bra and three pegs would fall to the ground just as I'd straightened up again. I'd leave them there, reach up to hang up the bra and Sapphire's knickers would drop. I'd swiftly bend down to pick them and the pegs up and forget that I had four socks that would slip out of my grip during the upwards movement and land on Skipper's roof. To the fat guy smoking on the second floor balcony next door, all you'd have to do is edit out the clothes and pegs via a blue screen and I'd be doing a good imitation of Quasimodo doing his daily bell ringing.

This pointless process went on and on and on and by the time I'd finished the clothes were all securely on the line but covered in a fine layer of dust, dead grass and leaf pieces.

Inside wasn't too successful either. First I somehow misjudged the width of the bedroom door (maybe because I'd only passed through it about, oh, a thousand times before) and the thick, unforgiving stainless steel knob decided to puncture me in the upper thigh. I staggered backward and snagged the very same thigh - in the very same spot - on the edge of our bed frame. Poo-Bum-Bugger-Shit-Fart it HURT!

Working in the kitchen proved more challenging than usual (and that's really saying something). Stripping the long hairy bits off sweetcorn cobs is often a bit clingy at the best of times, but today they clung to my hands like mini Maggi noodles. I'd shake one hand and they'd fly off and stick to the other like those unwanted boogers we all try to flick off but don't want to admit to. Thankfully Physlexia didn't seem to be interested in playing havoc with any sharp knives and my only other misfortune was when the top of the squeezy honey container fell off and it burped out a cup load instead of a tablespoon onto my meusli.*

I found myself back outside by the letterbox struggling to pull out the log-sized load of junk mail wedged in there by a little old lady with a wonky old wheelie cart who I've often imagined must have the secret strength of someone a different gender and five decades younger. This daily event always then leads to me walking around to our wheelie bins and sifting quickly through the brochures with my left hand and throwing out the rejects with my right hand, whilst simultaneously flipping the bin lid open. Not today of course. Physlexia's foul foolings meant that I ended up re-enacting the snapping jewellery box scene from Pretty Woman more times than is worth counting.

Alas, even in the bathroom - the last refuge of solitude and simplicity - Physlexia won the day. Reaching in the lower shelf of the vanity for a new bog roll I tried to stand up and doinged - yes, doinged, it even sounded like that - the top of my incredibly thin skull up against the sharp-edged bottom rung of our heated towel rail. Pain and burns for the price of one doing.

Since then, I haven't the courage to try opening my carton of iced coffee at the lip or fold up Skipper's triple-hinged playpen and Love Chunks and Sapphire are out hunting down a rotisserie chicken for dinner so I can avoid hopefully avoid dealing with any apparatus more dangerous than a fork and a plate for a few hours more before this day ends.

Thank god for screw top wine bottles, ugg boots and rows of chocolate - even Physlexia is powerless against my skills in those areas.

* As if honey is going to make the world's most boring breakfast food any more interesting, but apart from drizzling the bowl of raw oats and nuts and bolt-type things with melted chocolate (and thus undoing my cholesterol reduction campaign) there's not much else that can be done, apart from powderise it in a blender and somehow breathe it in.