Dazed and confused

I'm currently propped up in bed in a Chicago hotel room. I'm trying very hard to move nothing other than my finger right now, because I've done something to my back. I'm not certain when, or how, but I know that it wasn't there yesterday morning when we left the middle-of-nowhere place we were forced to stop in thanks to a combination of traffic jams and horrendous weather (think three hour lines of cars to get across the Canada-US border, followed by a storm with rain so heavy that I was driving at 20 miles an hour down a freeway, still barely able to see, and not even being overtaken). But it was there when the time came to lift my bags out of the car.

But either way, sitting here gives me a good view of the morning show that L puts on. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was just to provoke me. But I know better. I know that the fact we are in a first floor hotel room, with the windows open, curtains wide apart and cars and buildings all around us with prime views into our room is not enough to stop L from emerging from the bathroom wrapped only in a towel, shower cap still on her head, for some unfathomable reason. It's not enough to keep her from stepping out of the shower without a top on and standing in front of the window as she looks for something. Because it didn't stop her from stripping down to her flesh coloured singlet top before she went in, it never stopped her from essentially flashing the people up top on London buses from the windows of our old flat, and no doubt it won't keep her from putting on a show any time there is a window - because she likes natural light. And right now, there's plenty of that streaming through the windows. Luckily, it's Sunday morning. There aren't that many people out and about. Well, not compared to last night, at any rate. So I had better get on with getting myself organised for our day out and about in Chicago. But one thing's for certain: as I do that, I'm getting dressed in the bathroom.