Typecast

I am the world's clumsiest twat.  Seriously.  I'm not sure there's anyone to rival me.  I can trip over thin air and create a disaster out of nothing (I'll replay an example for you at the end of this post).  And today I surpassed myself. I fell down two steps.  Two really small s teps and landed like a sack of potatoes with my handbag spilling out all over the place and all the pages in my file wafting in the wind.  But I'm British and refused any offer of help from passers-by because I was s.o. e.m.b.a.r.r.a.s.s.e.d.  I gingerly put some weight on my foot and felt OK so I limped to my meeting. An hour later, as I attempted to walk back to my car, the pain had got almost too much to bear.  I cried all the way home as I drove down the motorway.  Gratefully, my husband was at home and, after calling me a clumsy twat (see, you thought I was exaggerating with my opening sentence, didn't you?), drove me to the hospital.   A sho...

I am setting up for a launch meeting at work (it's OK, I don't work for NASA but we're very excited about some Big Lottery funding we have recently been awarded) and my phone rings. "Hello, it's Jake's school.  He's had a bit of an accident..." I squeak, "Oh god, no!  What's happened?" Everyone turns to look at me, their panic-stricken faces mirroring mine.  Every single scenario runs through my head in about two seconds flat.

There is an industrial estate around the corner from us.  Part of the fence next to the entrance is a permanent shrine to a young lad who was the victim of a knife attack on that spot about four years ago. The "shrine" is well maintained - there are always fresh flowers, a football scarf, messages, cards... but I can never understand why someone would want to remember the place of death rather than have a "nice" place to go.