Awkwardness

Before I start, I'll explain, as requested by the one who left a comment on "Mistakes", what the Guru did to make paragraphing possible. At the top left hand corner of the new site it says 'compose' and 'html'. Apparently, I had been on 'html'   when I should have been on 'compose'.  It is pointless to ask me to elaborate. I can   understand 'compose' from my old life as a pen and ink writer but I havent the slightest idea what  'html' means and, no, I don't know in what way it is different from 'download', both of which appear when you want to print something off and, of course, I don't know  what the letters actually stand for. Go on. Tell me. The whole thing was a disaster, if you ask me and I am beginning to think it would make more sense to do a computer course than a typing course. Stop: my inner voice is going bananas. "Your life  is hard enough. You can't possibly be serious about flying to Cyberspace. For Goodness sake, you aren't even strong enough to undergo the injections and vaccinations you'd need, never mind learning a whole new language even to buy a bar of chocolate there." Quite right: I'll stick to touch typing, though the Guru, who went to the trouble of looking at the website of the Provider, tells me he doubts I'll  be disciplined enough to do the routine, regular pracitice which, it states quite clearly, is part of the course. Oh Dear: the pros and cons of being understood.

That's  enough explaining .Awkwardness:  I have developed an addiction for a certain kind of Japanese cooking. It is the kind where the food is cooked in front of you. I must distinguish between the large tables where strangers all sit , together, around a table which consists of a major hotplate, Teppanyaki I think it's called, and small tables where each little party has his, ok or hers, own small hotplate. It is the latter which has hooked me. I find myself making excuses to be in the area where one of the two extant in London exists.  There is a big disadvantage. Seating is on benches back to back with the next table. Nothing moves. Once you have clambered in, you are marooned until going home time. This is all  very well if you are 25,  or even 40, and flexible. At three score and a lot more than ten, clambering may well  be one of the skills you've left behind. By now I am warned. I have experience. The first time, needing a comfort stop, I went to get up and out to find I couldn't. My foot was trapped inside a sort of trestle arrangement. There was capacity neither to push the table forward nor to push the bench backwards. My companion was too embarrassed to laugh. I was not. Unfortunately, laughing didn't help.  In the end, I turned sideways, lifted one foot on to the bench and managed to get it, from there, over on to the floor.   Can you  picture it? Let's just say  it was possible only because I was not wearing a skirt. Those of you kind enough to keep up will have gathered that I do rather miss the smooth flow of movement I took totally  for granted in my youth and still, in my inner world, expect, now. A glimpse of this old bag lumbering along, swaying from port to starboard, , comes as such a shock I can't actually connect  that shop-window picture with your actual Liz.  Forget Typing.  Forget Computing  It's a course in  Etiquette and Deportment which I need. Nos da.