I'm one. A genuine dyed in the wool clumsy bastard. Already today I've burnt one finger taking a hot tray from the oven and slammed another finger in a drawer. There's that sickening, fanny-tightening moment as my body anticipates just how painful this may or may not be before the pain actually kicks in and I pour forth a honking volley of the rudest expletives in my vocabulary.
If there's something to be spilt or tripped over I'll find it - a tiny incline in an otherwise perfectly flat landscape, you betcha I'll find it and splay myself prone attempting to master that which the vast majority of the human race find unspeakably simple: putting one fucking foot in front of the other.
Time and time again I promise myself I'll slow down, consider exactly what I'm doing and not carry a cup of tea balanced precariously atop two bendy magazines and a large pile of clean laundry.
Many times, having cried hot, self-pitying tears of strangled, agonised frustration, I've vowed to check for random blobs of slippery conditioner waiting, with naughty glee in the bath from the last time I showered, to send me crashing in a naked, shrieking heap nose-first into the taps.
I've got so many scars on my forearms from various accidents with the iron and the oven that it appears I've turned self-harming into my day job. I'm single handedly keeping Bio Oil from bankruptcy - for no good reason either, because it doesn't help that I can burn myself five times in exactly the same place.
I'm despairingly sick of myself for being such a thumping, graceless twat. I can't walk through a doorway without bashing my shoulder on the doorframe, like some kind of hulking yeti. Every single time I open the door of my car I break a nail, despite knowing that the handle sticks halfway.
I swear to christ that if I stub my toe one more time on the corner of the bedpost nearest the wardrobe I'll throw the whole goddamn bed off the balcony in flames while laughing like a maniac.
There is but one thought which comforts me in all of this: my darling boy, my soon-to-be-husband and the one who holds my fretful heart when nothing can save me from myself... he's even clumsier than I.
If there's something to be spilt or tripped over I'll find it - a tiny incline in an otherwise perfectly flat landscape, you betcha I'll find it and splay myself prone attempting to master that which the vast majority of the human race find unspeakably simple: putting one fucking foot in front of the other.
Time and time again I promise myself I'll slow down, consider exactly what I'm doing and not carry a cup of tea balanced precariously atop two bendy magazines and a large pile of clean laundry.
Many times, having cried hot, self-pitying tears of strangled, agonised frustration, I've vowed to check for random blobs of slippery conditioner waiting, with naughty glee in the bath from the last time I showered, to send me crashing in a naked, shrieking heap nose-first into the taps.
I've got so many scars on my forearms from various accidents with the iron and the oven that it appears I've turned self-harming into my day job. I'm single handedly keeping Bio Oil from bankruptcy - for no good reason either, because it doesn't help that I can burn myself five times in exactly the same place.
I'm despairingly sick of myself for being such a thumping, graceless twat. I can't walk through a doorway without bashing my shoulder on the doorframe, like some kind of hulking yeti. Every single time I open the door of my car I break a nail, despite knowing that the handle sticks halfway.
I swear to christ that if I stub my toe one more time on the corner of the bedpost nearest the wardrobe I'll throw the whole goddamn bed off the balcony in flames while laughing like a maniac.
There is but one thought which comforts me in all of this: my darling boy, my soon-to-be-husband and the one who holds my fretful heart when nothing can save me from myself... he's even clumsier than I.
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