Wednesday, February 20, 2013

When your arms fall off

I am finally near the end of a seemingly never-ending cycle of painting the hall.  Following a six week break over Christmas and school holidays, I have three down and only one painting day left in this job.

The only problem with taking a break while I was riddled with feral children is that whatever arm and shoulder strength I had gained last year dissipated under the combined effect of too many pavlovas and heat-induced sloth.  Ah, summer!

My arms now feel like they are made of pink blancmange during a 7.5 Richter scale event.  At the end of a painting day, my hands shake so hard I could use them to whisk eggs.  I certainly wouldn't attempt to carry a hot drink unless I was in the mood for burned hands and cleaning the floor (which I never am).

You see, I am the possessor of a tremor at the best of times but unusual exercise drives my arms crazy.

I am in a mad struggle to finish the job, not just because we are extremely sick of having the usual contents of the hall and the painting bits distributed around the house.  I am such a lucky little duck I am starting jury duty next week.

I wonder what you can wear to increase the chance you will be discarded from jury selection?  A tea cosy on the head and bras on the outside maybe?  Is it too late to develop a major twitch combined with an intermittent pained yell?  If only my tremor was more extensive than my arms.  Poop.

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