Ever had one of those days where you try to help and everything goes horribly wrong?
You offer to courier an antique-looking gnome of an old lady across the street and the poor dear trips and falls on a loose paving and ends up shattered into a million tiny pieces all across Woodville Road.
Or you decide, out of the kindness of your heart, that maybe that guy crouched in Smiths' doorway could do with that 50p you'd been saving for a Kit-Kat a tad more than you. Feeling Michael-Jackons-in-Smooth-Criminal cool you toss the octagon his way and it ends up lodged in his eye like some quasi-chrome eye-patch. Shuffle feet and move on.
Today was one such day. My loving girlfriend decided to bestow her driving licence into my care: not a child, or her mother's finest china. A rectangular piece of plastic as big as a matchbook. 'No problem' I thought before stuffing it into my battered jeans. Oh yee of little faith.
What ensued was a mad-capped turning out of pockets that fell somewhere between the aesthetics of a schoolboy caught using a sling-shot and the manic insanity of a news report stating that H&M had sewn the secret of eternal youth into the pocket lining of every millionth pair of ill-fitting six quid jeans.
Raised voices, panting and sweat without any of the usual fun shenanigans. You can only deliver 'Are you kidding?' so many times before you feel like a talentless contestant being told that they have warbled their way through the seventy-fourth series of X-Factor and have to be forcibly restrained by twerp-du-jour Fearne Cotton before real muscle can escort you off the premises.
Bloody brilliant. Now I feel that I have fallen on the dependency level to somewhere between guarding the corner flags a la Father Ted and milk monitor. Now that's depressing.
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