Unreliable narrator

This blog’s readership has steadily shrunk, until it now represents the very crème de la crème. I have therefore no worries about readers being able to differentiate between the vast spoil heap of fantasy spewed out purely for my own amusement and the odd gold nugget of truth that somehow manages to slip through undetected.

Sadly, the concussion is all too real and is rather unsettling. Your bloggist may be a superb physical specimen, but it is his mind which sets him apart; and it’s beginning to play tricks. For more than a week I have been relaying details of the cranial allision incident to anyone who would listen, and indeed to the backs of the heads of one or two who wouldn’t. This morning, in a flash of returning memory, I now realise that the story I have been telling to them – and to myself of course – isn’t actually what occurred. It happened at a different time – by several hours – and not at all in the same way. A whole conversation that I thought I had had with the younger Miss Epictetus on the subject shortly afterwards simply never happened.

Apart from the unreliability of my brain, and leaving entirely to one side the philosophical issue of whether my consciousness exists separately from what that organ is telling me, the other symptoms would appear to be slowly easing. My balance is still bad, although I don’t have problems when moving forwards, only when standing still. Were I currently in possession of sufficient cognitive bandwidth I could possibly turn that into a valuable life lesson.