Spooky.

There’s a rather unfortunate matter I need to write about.

I promised quite a few of you some love mail while I was away in Kenya: postcards, letters, a baby giraffe, whatever.

Unfortunately last week, I managed to — I think — sprain my right wrist. It was an injury I had coming for a while and for a year, I’ve been feeling some pain and discomfort at the gym.

It was seriously buggered for a few days when I couldn’t move my wrist (sleeping was also painful), but it’s been getting better. Slowly. Which is why I’ve held out on running to the local (excuse for a) hospital.

At this point, I can do small things with my wrist. I can, for example, scratch my nose pretty well. I can also hold a teaspoon provided it’s filled with, say, whipped cream. Writing is still a bit painful (and so I’m reduced to typing with my left hand like an idiot).

Right.

But I really had my heart set on writing some long, extended, and undoubtedly drawn-out letters for some of you. But with my wrist as it is, any prolonged letter would end up looking like it was written by a 10 year old brat with bad penmanship, instead of, well, my usual scrawl.

What this means is that for the small subset of you for whom I was planning an extended letter — you’ll be getting your stuff when I get back to Canada. And since I’m such a cool guy, I’ll sprinkle an assortment of Kenyan souvenirs and trinkets with your package. This applies to three blog owners (in Hampshire, Ohio, and Oregon), and three friends back home in Ottawa (D.H., N.P., and D.B. — sorry fellas).

The rest of you will be getting an attractive postcard filled with my usual wit and sarcasm — which will be going out to the Post Office tomorrow.