I’ve reached the conclusion that there is little or not point to me putting on clean clothes.
I am on, at the time of typing, my second t-shirt of the day. It’s currently ten to nine at night. In theory, this will be the second and final t-shirt of the day. But it’s hard to tell with me. I mean, I have already thrown mushroom sauce down the front of it a little bit earlier, but managed to expunge that from the cloth almost instantly.
I am a naturally clumsy person. I don’t think there is any doubt about that. I can – and do – fall over in the most bizarre places or ways. I fell over nothing outside Westminster Abbey. I fell over nothing one night as we left the Lawrence Batley Theatre in Huddersfield. I fell off the edge of my parent’s drive more times than I care to remember. I went through mum’s old decking just the other week.
There are many, many instances of my clumsiness.
If you then introduce food into that equation then the goalposts move dramatically. Further towards the disaster end of the spectrum, just so we’re clear.
Who can forget, for example, one of the first times I came to Carole’s house and we had an indian meal which, somehow, I catapulted all over the floor. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the pleasure of picking warm rice out of a carpet with a bit of pile to it, but let me tell you it’s not a fun thing to be doing.
Generally if we go out and eat, I have to avoid anything that contains any form of liquid. I cannot chance foodstuffs such as beans or gravy because it’s asking for trouble. Before I finished work last year we went for an meal out and I ended up covered in it.
I am, basically, a muck tub.
Yesterday I got up, showered and dressed. I made lunch. I had some cheese sandwiches with piccalilli. Mainly because it’s nearly Christmas again, and it’ll be time to get some new piccalilli so I should probably finish the old stuff, but also because we had no pickle.
Anyway, I ended up with more piccalilli on me than in me. I think, potentially, I ended up with more on me than I originally put in the sandwich. It’s hard to tell for sure. It’s the way the fluorescent yellow spreads out when you rub at it that can provide a false result. Either way, by the end of lunch I looked like I could have gone out and safely stood in some roadworks without anyone asking why I was there. But definitely asking why I smelt a little but vinegary.
Today, t-shirt number one was treated to an over-exuberant soaking with the majority of the washing up water as I was working on cleaning a casserole dish. I was covered in suds, water and small bits of leek and onion, plus the blackened detritus that I had just scrubbed off the rim of the dish – teensy bits of dumpling and baked on sauce.
And then t-shirt two, as I say, was introduced to the mushroom sauce I was preparing to go with the pasta because, somehow, my arm translated the stirring motion into something which involved flicking a large portion of the brown, creamy sauce down my front.
You know when they have kids on those soap powder adverts and they’re covered in stains, and the adults are like “heh, what are these kids like?” before being amazed at how clean their clothes are post-wash.
That is my life.