It’s been a great week for May Making an Absolute Tit of Herself. Seriously. Pop me in a blue beret and call me Beakie. Let’s all point and laugh at May! Yes! She can take it!
For starters, after the last post’s Great Big Attack of the Vapours, MiL was (narrative imperative dictates that this be so) lovely. H and his dad went off at about six on Sunday evening, both in ironed shirts. We girls had tea, we had a cheerful natter, we had G&Ts, I made dinner, MiL washed up, we got out the wine, put a film in the DVD player and shared some chocolate, and ended up watching several episodes of Duckula (H found the box set on sale last week) and laughing like inebriated hyenas (Hoomite and Yubi!). Either I was emitting ‘First Rule of Miscarriage Club’ vibes at a strength and frequency sufficient to boil water, or MiL was, you know, in a fairly mellow mood and wanted to keep it that way, but who cares! Result! And also, a salutary lesson that while MiL’s issues are MiL’s issues, umm, May’s issues are May’s issues, and May needs to stop projecting so much.
And on to the slap-stick section of this week’s programming.
I was in a café, as one is, eating a toasted sandwich. A row of tables ran along the back wall, and I was sitting at one of them. And when I had finished my sandwich, I scooted along the bench to reach the section that had no table in front of it, so as to facilitate the standing-up part of leaving the establishment. Alas, I only noticed that the bench was not, after all, continuous, and was, in fact, four benches, one for each table, when I fell off the end of mine. And onto my neighbours’ shopping. I bounced upright carolling: ‘Sorry! Oops! I’m fine! More embarrassed than anything else! Glad your shoes are OK! Splendid! Bye now!’ and ran for the door.
Ow. My poor bottom. Has stiletto-shaped dent.
And then we were all having tea and birthday patisserie (did I mention it was H’s birthday yesterday?), and it was all marvellous, until I picked up my mug and watched it slide out of my grip like a buttered anchor. I basically poured an entire mug of hot Earl Gray directly onto H’s iPhone. Eeep. Oh, and onto the table, up my sleeve, down my trousers, all over the carpet, and between my thighs onto the chair beneath, but seriously? The iPhone? I nearly died of horror right on the spot.
It’s OK. The iPhone is fine. H thinks the iSock I knitted for it in pure (purple!) wool saved it from drowning.
Carpet is not fine, but carpet is hateful shade of anaemic beige anyway (also, who in freaking heck puts anaemic beige carpet in the kitchen?).
And at work today, a colleague distracted me while I was sticking labels onto books. I looked up, idly scratched my forehead and pushed my glasses up my nose while answering her, and yes, dear friends, I really did sellotape my glasses to my eyebrow.
And then I threw a veritable turret of books down the stairs at the exact moment I said to a junior colleague: ‘Abbie, don’t carry that many at once, you’ll drop them!’
For, verily, I am a class act.
And we shan’t at all in any way discuss the *ahem* very adult birthday treat I was giving H when someone let someone else know, in a very *ahem* pointed fashion that someone’s fingernails were insufficiently trimmed and someone else threw a leeeeeetle tantrum and vowed that that was the end, the end, you hear me! of adult treats for that evening, because surely a grown
man person can keep his their blasted fingernails under control and there was wailing and gnashing of teeth and all participants announced they were really very very tired now anyway and totally going to sleep and twenty minutes later matters had resumed in a decidedly heated fashion. What was I saying about having mislaid my libido, oh doom, oh gloom? Well, I’ve found it again, and it appears to be made of cast-iron.
Dashed bad form, I know.