It’s Friday 13th today. Good job I’m not superstitious considering how disaster prone I am, especially as I’ve woken up to a dusting of snow this morning. Treacherous conditions and me do not complement one another. Knowing my luck I’d end up in A&E nursing a broken leg or something.
Talking of broken legs, it’s a miracle I’ve never actually broken anything, I can barely walk in a straight line without tripping over my own feet. I’ve never been graceful. I can remember a time I was in work a couple of years ago, I’d been sat in the same position for over an hour, got up to talk to my Director and fell at her feet. Literally. I was in a heap on the floor not knowing quite what had happened. It’s a good job I don’t embarrass easily.
Remembering the aforementioned incident this morning reminded me of the other times I’ve become prone to disaster or been on the receiving end of some bad luck. There was a period of time I was too frightened to step outside my door for fear of what might happen.
10. Common Sense Doesn’t Prevail
This unfortunate incident event inspired a whole blog post, not long after I started my site. Mainly due to how I decided to treat my drenched iPhone after it had taken an impromptu soak in the bath. You can read more about how much my phone doesn’t appreciate Uncle Ben’s rice here if you wish.
9. Great Bags Of Fire
I was excited. I was heading to a party with some of my favourite people in Melksham one Saturday night. I’d treated myself to a new dress and a new bag and I was ready to party the night away. Wes and I headed to the pub for pre-drinks ahead of meeting up with some friends. I pop my new clutch onto the table and set about playing with my phone, taking photos, checking us in on social media like the attention seeker I am when I can smell burning. The table is on fire. I, have put my handbag, my brand new, just bought that day, bright orange clutch bag on a burning candle. Cue lots of blowing, lots of panicking and almost lots of tantrums. The bag was ruined, got nicknamed the Black Hole of Calcutta and became something of a photo prop for the rest of the night.
8. Carpet Hair
It was the morning of a girly weekend away to Marbella with my best friend when this unfortunate and quite frankly painful incident occurred. We were at my house doing our last minute beauty bits, I’d just dyed my hair (and my neck, and my arms and my hands – don’t ask). We were getting ready to pick our boys up from pre-school, I was straightening my hair whilst talking to my friend and trying to watch the TV when all of a sudden my hair started smoking and my hairbrush got caught. “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?” I screamed. We soon discovered where I’d been resting my hair straighteners on my shag pile rug, the heat of the appliance had melted the carpet into my hair straighteners and I was effectively ironing carpet into my hair. WHAT A FUCKING TWAT. Thank God my best friend was there, because in-between hysterical laughing, she had the unenviable task of cutting the carpet out of my hair.
How have I made it to 30?
7. Mirror, Mirror
We’re all well versed with the superstitions aren’t we? Don’t walk under a ladder (well what if I have no option?), don’t put new shoes on a table (my Mum still chastises me whenever I do this), a rabbit’s foot will bring you luck (who wants a manky foot to hang on to?) etc etc. But if there’s one that’s been drilled into me since I was a kid, it’s the ‘breaking a mirror will bring you bad luck for 7 years’. So, imagine breaking a mirror on Friday 13th? It’s a wonder my Mum didn’t kick me out there and then.
6. Mind The Step
I was sober. It was just as I was getting off the bus after a long day at work. I’ve missed the step and before I know it I’m in a heap on the pavement nursing a sprained ankle. How I hobbled home between laughs and limps I’ll never know. Didn’t even get an ounce of sympathy once I managed to make it through the front door as all of my housemates thought it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Especially as the bus driver was a distant cousin of mine.
5. Period Pains
Every girl can remember when they first started their period can’t they? Well for me it’s etched in my brain. It was April 2000, I was 13 and on a school trip to the ill-fated Millennium Dome; I’d just walked out of the ‘womb room’ an interactive science experience all about the sperm’s trip to meet the egg when Mother Nature decided now was my time to discover the monthly perils of being a woman. The irony is palpable.
4. A Trip To The Pub
Back last Summer my other half and I decided to take an impromptu visit to the pub. I’d barely had 2 drinks before I become embroiled in a huge row with some bloke who’s decided he wants to put himself forward for Arsehole of the Year award (he really was VILE). Cutting a long story short, everyone is kicked out of the pub and not wanting to call it a night just yet (it was still light, but I should’ve ignored this fact and just gone home) we head to another pub to continue our evening. I was riled up so wanted a drink to relax a bit. We order our drinks, head out to the garden (remember at this point I’ve only had 2 beverages); it’s packed but I want a cigarette. I follow my partner out to the back of the garden and before you can say “got a lighter love”, I’ve ended up in a heap at the bottom of some bloke’s feet. I didn’t see the step in time and I’ve gone ass over tit. Wes, the ever supportive boyfriend of mine, thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen and can’t stop laughing and pointing, leaving the poor bloke whose feet I’ve practically head-butted to pick me up off the floor. The utter fucking shame of it.
3. Once Bitten, Twice Shy
When I used to live in a flat, I had a neighbour who lived below us. She wasn’t too well and lived alone, aside from 2 yappy dogs who kept her company. During our last year in the flat, our neighbour found herself in a few dangerous situations, which required me calling an ambulance a couple of times having found that she’d fallen out of bed, or had scolded herself with a hairdryer; usually in the middle of the night. It was quite a stressful time, however, because I lived above her I felt duty bound to always help. In the last few weeks before we moved out of the flat, I would often pop down to check in on her and ask if she needed anything. Until one day, I went down to see if she wanted anything from ASDA and as I was walking out of her garden, her little shit of a dog decided he was hungry and my lower limbs were looking like potential food. The dog had clamped his teeth onto my leg and wouldn’t let go. I’m shaking my leg like I’m doing the jive and this dog is doing everything he can to claim my leg as his property. Finally the little fucker lost his fight and I limped upstairs muttering every swear word under my breath. A tetanus jab and a fair few bandages later, I vowed never to go near another dog again.
2. Is It Too Late To Say Sorry?
We’ve all done it, haven’t we? Sent a text message to someone we didn’t mean to or perhaps we shouldn’t have. But imagine this; you’re on the phone to someone, they’re doing your head in, so you decide to text your best mate your thoughts with regards to this person you’re conversing with. Only you don’t send it to said friend. You send it to the person you’re on the phone to. And to make matters worse you don’t realise until they’re screaming and shouting down the phone to you, calling you every name under the sun. Yep that happened. And yep I still cringe in ways you can’t even begin to appreciate 16 years on.
1. Dancing With Disaster
I was 22 when this incident took place. In a bar in the centre of Bristol. I’d just bumped into my ex in a pub, I’d not seen him since I did a dramatic flit from our house one evening 8 months previously, so as you can imagine my emotions were all over the shop. Best way to deal with this scenario? Get pissed.
Off myself, my housemate and her WORK MATES (yep, I didn’t even know the people we were out with) went to the next pub, headed straight for the bar and ordered in a pint of cider each. Now, I don’t know if it’s the memories of this incident or just the fact I can’t handle cider but I’ve barely touched the stuff since.
Without even taking a sip of the drink we all headed to the dance floor. In my infinite wisdom I decided to start a dance off, I take my position and start pulling some incredibly questionable moves while a colleague of my housemate humours me. Transpires she’s a professional dancer. Before I can even pull out my signature move (slut drop), I’m on my backside with a pint of cider over my head. A full pint of sticky, smelly cider. We’d not even been out an hour.
I’d slipped on something and as I went down, my arm holding the cider went up and the WHOLE GODDAMN PINT OF CIDER is now sitting pretty over my hair.
Now, I have the type of hair that will become frizzy even if there’s a hint of moisture in the air, so you can imagine how I looked come 11pm. I stank like a pub that’s not known a cleaner in months.
This post is linked to #brillblogposts with Honest Mum.
On Twitter? Come keep up with my inane ramblings & Z List fall outs: www.twitter.com/ourrachblogs