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I was walking around the apartment, looking for a book suitable to read in the bath (for which a major qualification is that it has to be easily available, just in case I drop it in the water, not that I have yet), when I slipped on the stairs to the living room. I caught myself and didn't fall, but I seem to have wrenched a muscle (or muscles) in the left side of my neck.
There is no good reason for these stairs to exist. I live in a one-bedroom apartment, all on the same level. Well, almost the same level: there's this stupid pointless sunken living room that someone probably thought was stylish in the 1930s. It provides no additional space, nor does it provide any useful visual or audio separation between the living room and the foyer. All it does is make the living room difficult if not impossible of access for anyone using a wheelchair (it would be possible to install a ramp, and then you really would lose floor space, beyond the small amount occupied by the stair itself), and create a place where people not in wheelchairs are unusually likely to fall and injure ourselves.
I found a copy of Mansfield Park, which I haven't read in a while and can count on staying in print, drew a bath, with some peach-scented "bath fizz" (not very fizzy, but I suspect it of being stale), and soaked while reading a few pages. The bath was a great comfort, and may even have soothed my neck muscles. But the day wasn't looking very productive anyhow (having to fax the same stack of pages twice, because fax number 3, or was it 4, for my proofreading client is also proving unreliable, didn't help). I very much doubt that I will be going out to see![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rozk and assorted other people this evening; I don't even want to get dressed again, much less go back outside.
There is no good reason for these stairs to exist. I live in a one-bedroom apartment, all on the same level. Well, almost the same level: there's this stupid pointless sunken living room that someone probably thought was stylish in the 1930s. It provides no additional space, nor does it provide any useful visual or audio separation between the living room and the foyer. All it does is make the living room difficult if not impossible of access for anyone using a wheelchair (it would be possible to install a ramp, and then you really would lose floor space, beyond the small amount occupied by the stair itself), and create a place where people not in wheelchairs are unusually likely to fall and injure ourselves.
I found a copy of Mansfield Park, which I haven't read in a while and can count on staying in print, drew a bath, with some peach-scented "bath fizz" (not very fizzy, but I suspect it of being stale), and soaked while reading a few pages. The bath was a great comfort, and may even have soothed my neck muscles. But the day wasn't looking very productive anyhow (having to fax the same stack of pages twice, because fax number 3, or was it 4, for my proofreading client is also proving unreliable, didn't help). I very much doubt that I will be going out to see
rozk and assorted other people this evening; I don't even want to get dressed again, much less go back outside.