Today I hit myself in the face with a knife (a butter knife, but even so — a KNIFE, people), burnt my thumb and two fingers on my right hand so badly that they’re swollen and blistering a bit, set a wooden spoon on fire (on actual flaming fire) and nearly poured a full pot of boiling water all over the floor (I caught that one). Yesterday I sliced my thumb open on a tin can and hit my head on the open dryer door. Not that many days ago, I accidentally sloshed almost boiling water into my face while I was trying to squeeze the air out of my hot water bottle.

I used to look at older women (like my lovely aunt) who were terribly deliberate about their movements. Carefully put down scissors before reaching for the tape, carefully swung their coats into the car before closing the door. I fling myself around the world like I’m on a tether. I leap into cars, I hurl knives into drawers, I toss bags on to benches, I fall into bed, I spring up again, I lunge, I hop, I dance, I move, always, as if something’s about to fall and I’m stretching to catch it.

Now I’m wondering if perhaps I should slow down a bit, watch where I’m putting my feet, take time to put my bag on properly. Only last week I put my shoulder out so badly (while sleeping) that I was in agony for a day and even now I can feel it twinge a bit. The following day I wrenched my neck just turning around.

I fear that this is the first step on my own slippery slide into dementia. And I also know that whether or not I surrender to the fear, I will carry that fear around with me from now on, as I watch my mum disappear. I fear that I’m getting old and that this is what getting old feels like. I fear that I could ward this all off by getting into better shape but I don’t really want to because I’m so very lazy. But I want to carry on hurtling through the world, not stepping politely. I want to carry on feeling like me.

And in the meantime, I think I should get more bandages and an aloe plant.