Last night I was at Watford High Street station with my oldest friend, Amy. We’ve known each other since we were four, she’s not 90). She’s staying with me at the mo, and it’s great. We were merrily walking along the platform looking forward to getting back to the flat, making a Tesco-sponsored ‘bung it all in the pan’ stir fry for dinner involving no cooking skill, and having a debrief about our days whilst laughing at all the contestants who can’t even cook a quail on Masterchef.
That was before ‘the event’. I am a changed woman now. Hardened to the world, less optimistic. The shine on Gregg Wallace’s bald head has lost some of its sparkle forever.
Now, before I launch into what actually happened, I want to clarify a couple of things.
My falling over policy is much like my dad’s 5 trillion decibel sneezing mission statement: ‘All of the drama, but for what?’. In other words, I have a history of falling over spectacularly, but barely injuring myself.
When I was at primary school, I tripped over playing chase and knocked both front teeth out. I was so gutted that the tooth fairy wouldn’t come because my teeth were lying somewhere on the playground, that the best dinner lady in the world found them for me and wrapped them in a paper towel before Mum came to pick me up. Gross, but amazing.
When I was in upper school, I tripped over my own two feet and belly-slid several metres in mud whilst DOING A SUPERMAN POSE in front of about 50% of the entire school. I later became a (briefly) cool hero when I told a little fib on the incident form and said I’d tripped in the hazardous pathway crater that we’d all been moaning about for months, and it magically filled itself in the next day. Mum had to come and pick me up as I was covered from head to foot in mud, and before she said anything, she took one look at me and erupted into tears of laughter. The lady in the office said ‘She is all right’, but Mum was laughing so hard, she didn’t even care that her parenting was being shadily called into question. We got into the car, and she had to laugh some more and get it out of her system before she was physically able to drive us home. Cheers, Mum.
When I started working at JP Gardner & Associates, I went to my boss’ house one evening. I ran in wedges across the front lawn to pay the taxi driver, and went over on my shoe. Jane was watching from the window, and so got a slow-mo view of me throwing bags into the air, and then disappearing as I stacked it. She came out doubled over with laughter, I was sprawled on the grass laughing, and the taxi driver didn’t have the first clue what was going on.
I enjoyed recounting those tales so much, that I’ve forgotten what THING TWO is, sorry.
It will come as no surprise to you, that as we turn our attentions back to me and Amy meandering along Watford High Street station yesterday evening, what I am about to tell you.
Since losing weight, the majority of my shoes have become a lot too big for me. (This is one of the things I consider most unfair. I still have a massive belly tyre, but daintier feet. Whatever you believe in, something I would argue is indisputable proof of a higher being with slightly questionable project management skills.)
Anyway, my loose shoes were absolutely a contributing factor to last night’s slapstick routine. One minute I was on my feet, the next minute I was going ‘aaaaargh’, throwing my stuff everywhere, including my phone. Normally, there are about two people on that station. This time, obviously, it was in front of a trainload of people furthering their journey to Watford Junction, and people waiting on the other side of the platform for the next train to London. As I flew in slow motion, I saw Amy’s eyes widen and mouth drop open. Two men who were stood near rushed to ask if I was okay and help me up. Everyone looked super concerned. This was obviously lovely, but also absolutely horrifying.
I’m British. I don’t want people to look at me under any circumstances. I wanted the paving slab my poor knees were on to crack, and a sinkhole to open up and take me to the centre of the earth where I could live the rest of my days replaying my embarrassment over and over, until eventually becoming a shit Gollum. I was repeatedly asked if I was okay. This made the embarrassment worse.
In the moment, I was absolutely fine. It’s the aftermath I’m struggling to deal with.
- Somehow – and don’t ask me how, I failed physics – during the fall I managed to snap a bra wire in my favourite bra, which I was wearing with matching pants to give me a confidence lift. This makes it even more heartbreaking. RIP flowery bra, you will be missed
- Despite my leggings not being ripped, I have grazes on my knees like a small, accident prone child.
- I am currently sat at my desk writing this on my lunch break, making ‘oof’ noises every time I get up to walk to the printer because between falling over and waking up this morning, my bum has decided to compete with my knees for the sympathy vote and something muscular in there isn’t happy.
WHAT CAN WE ALL LEARN FROM THIS?
- Losing weight is great, but there are small downsides to everything.
- Always have a backup favourite bra
- Falling over is much better when you have a friend beside you to say ‘I’ve got your phone!’