Accident Waiting To Happen

Clumsy, accident prone, downright careless. Whatever label you choose to put on it, that's me. If something can be knocked over, spilt or dropped, then you can count on me to do it. I'm the person who'll visit your home and spill a glass - a full glass, naturally - of red wine all over your newly acquired oatmeal carpet. You'll say it doesn't matter, of course, but we'll both know that it does. And every time I visit you and see the slightly pink shadow of a stain, now hidden under an occasional table, it'll be another reminder of my innate clumsiness.

How I'd love to be one of those people who leave the house looking immaculate and return several hours later with barely a hair out of place. I may look presentable when I walk out of the door, but you can guarantee I won't stay that way for long. There's a conspiracy afoot to ensure that something will go wrong. I'll be that person walking too near the edge of the kerb on a wet day, when puddles have formed at the side of the road; the unsuspecting soul who steps right into the large and squelchy dog turd, cunningly hidden under a pile of leaves. Beginning to get the picture?

External influences are one thing, but I'm more than capable of sabotaging my appearance quite independently. There's many a day when, wearing a dark coloured top, I'll glance down, only to realise with a sinking heart that - yet again - my breast region is speckled with an interesting array of tiny white dots. The tooth brushing monster strikes again! My most memorable act of self-sabotage happened many years ago during my industrial placement from university. Part of my role during the year involved arranging work experience placements for local school children. So, there I was one afternoon, sitting at my desk, enjoying a cup of coffee, when the Receptionist called to let me know that a teacher had arrived to visit his students on placement. I jumped up, only to send my coffee flying all down the front of my dress (as I recall, a light-coloured linen number with tasteful black and red splodges and, more than likely, shoulder pads too; all very fashionable at the time - honestly!). I was quite literally drenched in coffee - dripping, even. Dabbing at my dress in the Ladies had virtually zero impact and I was left with no option other than to put on my jacket (covering only a fraction of the stain) and to stride out with my head held high...

The very worst thing about my dirt-magnet qualities is that they appear to be genetic. It's evidently a dominant gene too - each of my children has inherited it. Every day my boys come out of school, liberally coated in mud; even on the driest day we've had for weeks. A few days ago, I was sorting out the laundry and thought for one dreadful minute that George had fallen victim to a virulent attack of diarrhoea and was too embarrassed to tell me. I was quite relieved to realise it was only mud. He'd evidently been doing more than the average amount of wallowing that day and it had gone right through to his underwear! I did think for a while that Daisy might have escaped the curse but it seems to have claimed another victim:

I go to collect Daisy from pre-school, her t-shirt is generously smeared in red and orange paint:

Daisy: Mummy, I got paint on my Charlie and Lola t-shirt.

Julie: Never mind Poppet, it'll wash. Can I see your painting?

Daisy: I didn't do one today.

Arrrrgggghhhhh!!!!


Accident Waiting To Happen - Billy Bragg (Don't Try This At Home, 1991)