And Shit Too Happens

I never thought of my household as an accident-prone one, the way in which families with little children or really stupid people can be (those that warm baked beans in the oven in sealed cans for example). But now I am starting to wonder whether I should reconsider and should add some form of insurance cover for my idiocy.

Over the past six weeks I’ve fallen over and cut my knee open; I’ve slipped while taking a shower and have fallen over and backwards outside of the bath onto the slate floor and not only is it miraculous that I didn’t rip the shower curtain off its rail and the rail off the ceiling but that I didn’t end up on a wheelchair paralysed from the neck down. Only a week ago my trustworthy blender opened at the bottom as I was whizzing hot soup, landing my left hand in boiling green slime (it was pea soup) and subsequently iced water until I stopped crying.

I would have thought that enough for the time being, except it is so true that you just never know when shit is going to hit you, neither are you gonna know the direction it’s going to come from, the speed it will hit you at, nor how much the flying shit will cost you. And so one second you’re celebrating a writing success by knocking down Pimm's,



and the next you’ve got a cone on your head, a bootie on your foot and £ 150 less in the bank.