Nit Picking

I've been indulging in a little naval gazing lately, partly brought about by a dose of the flu, partly by the weather, which has made it so that I'm terrified to set foot outside the house for fear of falling on my arse, getting filmed doing it, and ending up on funniest home videos. That's led to a whole lot of examining why I'm so clumsy and why I'd rather sit inside and look at the pretty through the window than venture out and experience it first hand. Because it has been pretty. And I do love snow once I lever myself out of the chair and pull on every item of clothing I own - not just because it's cold, but also in a vain attempt to cushion as much of me as possible; given that I woke up this morning feeling like I'd managed to dislocate both hips in my sleep, I think it's a futile exercise.

But at least I think I've found the source of my inner klutz. It's a result of my innate laziness. The incident where I tripped and ploughed headfirst into the side of a train? Was because I'm too lazy ti lift my feet properly after the first hundred metres of sprinting. Being falling-down-sober in the casino and ending up with a seriously sprained ankle and a trip out of the service entrance in a wheel chair? Because I was too lazy to pay attention to just how many stairs there were. The ball flying off my own hockey stick and into my face? Product of a half-arsed attempt to tackle someone in a training drill. Doing the splits getting off a bus in Tallinn Christmas before last? Because I was too lazy to use muscles properly to step down slowly and just went flop - in more ways than I'd expected as it turned out. And my current inability to walk down the icy footpaths now that London has officially stopped gritting any non-major roads? That would be my failure to develop the stomach muscles necessary for balance.

Given half a chance, I could easily become one of those hermits who crops up in kids movies, the one who has the messy, rundown house but is never seen. The scary neighbour who, like Boo Radley, the only reason you know they're still in there is because you haven't seen someone carry them out yet. And the inevitable consequence for me of living like that would be the way they'd eventually have to get me out of the house; it would also be like something off the TV, only it would be the shows where they have to remove the wall of the house and use a crane to lower out the lard ball trapped within. My laziness is accompanied by a deep and abiding love of all things bad for me. Television, books, writing, hell, even sewing. So many things that can keep me occupied for days, weeks, months, without needing to step beyond the bounds of the living room, the kitchen, my bedroom. As long as there is something for my mind to do, I could be content. Strangely, my mind has never been lazy. It's always been rather active, in fact, mostly in search of reasons for me not to be up and moving. I guess something had to move, just to prove that I was alive.

But it turns out that I've always been lazy, right from the very beginning. When I was still rolling around on the floor, refusing to even sit under my own steam at an age when most kids were walking, I was taken to the doctor for fear that there was something seriously wrong with me. And it turned out there was. I have been medically diagnosed as stubbornly lazy. When propped on cushions, I would dig my heels in until I was once again lying on my back. I learnt to talk incredibly early so that I could order my brothers to bring me anything I wanted. I'm fairly certain that this early show of determined sloth had resulted in the lack of stomach muscle definition I am blaming for my appalling balance. My suspicions weren't contradicted by last weekend's phone call to my parents.

I seem to have been a topic of general conversation in Melbourne, where they have been wondering how I cope with the cold (refer above for the answer: I don't. I make an environment where it isn't cold and I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge any alternative). There have been news reports of people falling and breaking bones. Mum is justifiably convinced that I'm going to join the ranks of these people. Given my track record, I can understand the concern. She was trying to make sure that I had the right shoes on when I went outside, but I promised her I hadn't left the house without wearing hiking boots since Christmas, that it wasn't that I didn't have the right shoes, but rather that I didn't have the right balance. Mum's response was typical, fast and to the point.

'Yes, you were never very good at rollerskating, either, were you.'

Confirmation from an unexpected source - when your mother doesn't defend your abilities, you've really got no hope, and besides, how many other people went rollerblading and ended up getting stuck on tramlines? I was a truly terrible skater - I've cringed every time I set foot outside this week until the overnight rains washed away the last of the snow and ice. If they hadn't, I might have been forced to dig my heels in once more, but this time to avoid being flat on my back. One of these days, I'll just give up and stay inside. And on that day, you can call me Boo.