I need to tell you about an interesting day I had a couple of years ago. A memorable one – for the wrong reasons.
Instead of walking with my usual head bowed, listening to music, trying to concentrate on not tripping up over small children or rogue squirrels (what the fuck are those little bastards on these days? They’re so brazen) I guess you could say I’d been looking ahead. Straight forward. Head held high.
Actually, what I’d really been looking at is beards. Fit beards EVERYWHERE. The kind that frequent coffee shops in London’s Soho (ahem, Fernandez & Wells) asking about the carbon footprint of a single Ecuadorian coco bean or some other wank. But frankly, hot beards can say whatever they want – because who is listening when you’re that pretty? No one, that’s who….
So, a particularly fine specimen of beard was walking towards me. Our eyes locked.
I did that archaic and slightly annoyingly female thing of being all coy, looking away, and then looking back. And guess what? HE WAS STILL BLOODY LOOKING. It’s 9am and I’ve managed to almost half pull as I’m on the way to work. Score. Massive score. Today will be epic, I think to myself. I own at life!
Unfortunately, before the lingering glances could become a meaningful vocal exchange, we were disturbed. Because I’d been looking ahead, at him in fact, and not down, I slipped and fell. Which would be fine, normally. Everyone falls over, it’s sort of funny. And it’s the basis for a rom-com of the most pedestrian kind. It would play out like this: he sees me faceplant, walks back over, helps me up and marvels at my frankly adorable clumsinessm – THEN he asks me if ‘I’m OK,’ scoops me up in his giant tattooed arms and then he asks me out. Obvs, we get married in a whirlwind romance, we make beautiful babies and then this story is regaled to the masses at our 60th wedding anniversary. Dreamsville.
Except, there’s another part to this story you don’t yet know. The one thing standing between me, and tapping the hot beard. Because had I just slipped on a feral leaf or on a newspaper that would be fine. Cute, even. But that’s not the case. That’s not what happened here pals.
As I gathered myself together, and stood up, I realised that I’d slipped over on something. Something brown. That – dear reader – was a giant steaming dog shit. But that’s not all, because I’d actually fallen IN it, not just ON it, I was now rocking what can only be described at turd couture, AKA MAD GIRL COVERED IN DOG SHIT. And I was wearing an eye-wateringly expensive tux cape. Nothing about this situation was ideal.
“Are you ok,” the beautiful beard calls to me.
“I’m fine – carry on!!!” I bark angrily, trying to force him as far away from me as was humanly possible. Nobody wants to be near turd girl. Luckily, he scuttled away and I fled to work to change into my gym kit, and spent the rest of the day feeling a little bit wounded. And paranoid I smelt like Labrador poop.
Did I mention I had a job interview that day – YEAH. Which I did in my fucking gym kit.
LESSON IN LIFE: Look where you’re walking, focus on that over checking people out on the street and if you see anyone who lets their dog shit in the street and doesn’t clean it up, you have my full, furious permission to pick it up and throw it at their fucking heads. They ruined my life.
*More adventures from turd girl soon…and yeah, weirdly I did get the job. And yes, I legit went to the interview in my gym kit.