Today, my wireless internet died, my phone credit ran out, and the key to my house went missing so I couldn't leave for so much as a cup of coffee in the sunshine.

Essentially, I was locked inside the house and unable to contact anyone in any way except possibly morse code, which I couldn't learn because I didn't have the internet.

I got so much work done.

Someone has GOT to fix this untenable situation.

So I'm reading Alan Bennett again.

Anais Ninn and Dostoevsky are driving me crazy. They're like two teenage kids in the back seat of the car whinging about how they're depressed and wearing too much eye makeup and colouring their fingernails in with permanent markers.

Alan Bennett, on the other hand, sits next to you and says hilarious things about people you both know.

Anyway, I was reading Alan in the bath and I chucked in a lurid pink bath bomb. Now, from about the water level (my belly button) down to my toes, is a light tinge of pink.

Two tone reading. Nice.

It relaxes me that the Melbourne Royal Botanic Gardens' website has a "FUNGUS OF THE MONTH" section.

Check out this month's fungus! It's from East Gippsland, as are Patties Pies and Rita.

It's late, and my head still feels like it's rolling around in a jar.

So they say that some of the symptoms of concussion (see below) are:

Irritability ("snapping" at the smallest thing)

Bad memory

Lack of co-ordination (walking into things, knocking things over)

Tiredness

Inability to concentrate

This is a great relief in terms of helping to explain my experiences trying to write this morning, although it doesn't explain the other 364 days.

This is my second (or third) sporting update in as many days. Unusual.

If this one makes no sense, however, it is because I am concussed.

This afternoon, turning my head back over my shoulder to discover that the tram I was about to catch was rapidly approaching the stop, I accelerated (with great force) into a telephone pole, face first.

It was ludicrously painful. For a while, I held my soaking face (tears were pouring down my face, blood was flooding from my nose) and tried to regain my composure. As far as sporting injuries go, sprinting into a pole in front of a park full of picnicking Young People (Edinburgh Gardens) is really not the most heroic way to bruise.

After my embarassment died down, my fear set in. I've looked up "concussion" on the web, and it says that if one pupil is bigger than the other and you have a headache and feel dizzy and your eyes hurt... you're concussed. Anyway so I looked in the mirror and I have one TEENSY pupil and one MASSIVE pupil that has staged a coup over the rest of my eye.

I'm convinced I'm in extreme danger of expiring overnight from a sporting injury caused by my being late. What a fitting way to go.

Anyone who knew me three years ago will surely not forget the "mysterious illness" I contracted when I was directing rehearsals of the Standing There Productions stage show, People Watching.

If you remember that, then you will also remember the relentless hilarity that ensued when the mysterious illness was given a name.

Now, it isn't often that my ears prick up during the sport (frisbee not being a televised event). It is, however, with enormous sympathy that I note the slap face epidemic in the Crows AFL team.

Slap face. Slapped cheek. Red face. The baby disease. I TOLD YOU I WASN'T MAKING IT UP!

(By the way, slap face really does suck. Not only are you hot and itchy and tired and sick, but everyone thinks you've been punched in the face. Slightly more acceptable if you're a footballer, I imagine, than an aspiring writer/director who looks pasty at the best of times).

May I take this opportunity to welcome...

FRISBEE SEASON!

You little bloody ripper.

Anyone looking for me, I'll be somewhere green.