I am clumsy. It’s a bit of a family joke actually. My dad likes to recount tales of orange juice going flying at every. single. meal when I was a kid (on a side note, I think my eldest has inherited this trait). Actually, I still spill my drink a few times a week, it’s really annoying.
But my clumsiness seems to have amplified, and grown into more aspects of my life. There are the general clumsy stories- for instance, I cleaned the house from top to toe last week because I was having friends over for lunch, and then right on the dot of 12:30, when they were due to arrive, I smashed a bottle of thickened balsamic vinegar all over the tiles. Cue crawler trying to get into it, and sticky floors for days. Oh, and on another day last week I was lamenting the fact that Reid had chipped the side of an egg cup (he was using it as a hammer, as you do), when I put it on the bench, wrong somehow, and it started to fall. I tried to catch it and managed to knock a second eggcup off the bench, causing them both to smash on the ground. Impressive.
But as I said, the older I get, the more things seem to be getting worse, and not just in the smashing around me side of things. For example, my trusty Dyson vacuum cleaner has decided that it needs the on/off button to be held down to work, fish die like flies when I’m nearby (I told you I didn’t want the responsibility of fish, Nick!), plants whither as I walk past (I think I over water them), chairs fall apart at the seams. It’s like I’m a walking tornado that pulls everything into its path of destruction.
Lucky Nick is here to fix everything up behind me. In fact, I think I hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner working as we speak…
Now, perhaps a trip to the pet shop is in order.