Up Shit Creek in a Barbed Wire canoe.

Up Shit Creek in a Barbed Wire canoe.
Recently, I have increasingly found myself up shit creek in a barbed wire canoe, to coin a phrase.
A combination of damaged eyesight and a damaged brain has so severely undermined my ability to navigate from one place to another that, from where I'm standing, it would seem that there is a question mark over my ability to prosecute my everyday life.
In the past week I have gotten lost at night inside my own home (not once but repeatedlya) and, in broad daylight, while trying to return home from the library and the supermarket - both familia r and well-traveled routes.
On one occasion, I spent almost an hour lost in the streets near our home, unable to find our gate.
Monday evening I left early to go pick up daughter Cornucopia from the daycare, hoping to complete the journey before it got dark.
On reaching the daycare earlier than I had planned to, I decided there was time for a side-trip to the Tsutaya video store.
However, after leqving Tsutaya, I blundered off in entirely rhe wrong direction, and got most monstrously lost.
While I was haphazardly exploring the increasingly bewildering streets of some unknown ciry in an entirely different universe, the daycare finally phoned my wife.
w [my spouse, not USA George] Hugh?
DC: Uh, Cornucopia's mum, right? Look, we've got a guy from a brick kiln here, and he'w offering to buy Corny. Six dollars. American dollars. Cash. Ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd. Do you want us to facilitate this career opportunity for her?
No!
As a brick kiln survivor, my wife knew perfectly well that the market value of an untrainedd three-year-old slave is not US$6 but US$ 24.

Or, If sold as a virgin to a brothel in Africa, US $240.

By the time my fatiguing random walk through 32-dimensional space had brought me back to the daycare center,NOTGEORGE had uplifted Corny and had headed for home.

As I headed home myself, the batteries in my MagLite torch chose this moment to die. With my flashlight out of action, I was blind in the dark, but soldiered on.
I then made the mistake of taking some stairs which looked promising but which led me up one flight and into the interior of a private dwelling where I had no right to be.
Feeling around, I found the space was unfurnished. Good. That suggested that there was at least one door between me and any unsuspecting slumbering female. Still, this was anextremely weird situation to be in, and my unquenchable crearive faculty kicked in and came up with the following mot;

Surrealism is acceptable as an art form, but not as a way of life.

Then I heard a guy talking to himself, maybe to his cellphone. He was close, and I didn't want him to come at me with some kind of improvised weapon, and hit me in the head with, say, a baseball bat, the household washing machine, the family grand piano or a sheet of roofing iron.
"Sumimasen!"
["Excuse me.]
There was no response to this overture, so I eventually found my way down to the street level, where I eventually enlisted the aid of a passer by who took me all the way to the local Shinto shrine, from where I was able to make my way back home.
On my return, I found my wife had been on the phone to the cops, and had reported me as a missing person.