It was my husband’s birthday last Monday and his mum’s funeral on Tuesday, putting it up there as possibly one of the crappiest birthdays of all time. So, as a small consolation, I took him to Manchester for the weekend.
My mum had the kids and we set off on Saturday afternoon. We checked into the hotel and then promptly found a pub where we chatted, had a couple of drinks and got up to leave. As we neared the doors, I became aware of my right foot, rather than going in front of the left, was instead slipping slowly and oh so inevitably sideways…
Yep. I was falling over in a very undignified manner…in the middle of a busy sports bar…with lots of people facing me as they watched football on the big screen behind me…
I wasn’t falling due to the amount of alcohol imbibed (for a change). I was falling because my very high boots with very slippy soles were not designed to walk quickly over highly polished, wooden floors.
I desperately scrabbled to stay upright…I clawed at my husband’s arm…whilst he stood looking down on me, bemused and smirking.
I was in free-fall slow motion. I haven’t been able to do the splits since I was about nine, but did anyone tell that to my legs on Saturday? No, they did not.
I feel my husband could have helped more. He would argue that he was helpless with laughter. I could see heads turning as I flailed, arms swinging wildly to gain purchase on something more solid and not as paralysed by hysteria as my husband was.
I wasn’t near to anything except more laughing people. I had a fleeting thought that the big hoop earrings I was wearing might lasso me to safety but sadly, like my husband, they too failed me spectacularly.
My only saving grace was that I was wearing jeans and not a skirt so no-one was in danger of being flashed at (or swallowed up. Hey, I’ve had three kids, give me a break).
Just in case the one guy sat at the rear of the bar, quietly drinking his pint and wondering what to have for his tea hadn’t noticed the spectacle taking place, I decided to make it easier for him by screeching loudly, ‘I’M FALLING!’
And then I hit the deck. My husband, whilst not impressed by my ability to do the splits, was however MOST impressed by how quickly I jumped up, like…well, choose your metaphor. Shit off a shovel? A cat on hot bricks? A woman in her mid-thirties suffering from acute embarrassment?
As I left the bar (more slowly this time due to the bruises) my burning cheeks almost set fire to the tumbleweed rolling past. I’m sure even the football players on the big screen stopped mid-play, ball suspended in the air, to watch my humiliating exit.
I think someone may even have taken off their cap and bowed their head solemnly as I hobbled past.
Later that day we saw street entertainers that were earning money for doing things MUCH less magnificent than my party trick. AND they’d had to practise theirs. I felt sorry for them. I mean, you’ve either got it or you haven’t… :)