Nothing, dear. Just one of those days.

Nothing, dear. Just one of those days by David Macfie

 My day started badly. I woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. So I got out of bed on the wrong side and stepped on the dog. She wasn’t impressed and bit me on the leg. I limped to the bathroom and treated my wound. Then I washed my face and cleaned my teeth. When I gargled my-mouth wash, some splashed into my eyes. My goodness, that stings. To add insult to injury I snorted my nasal spray and nearly choked. Still coughing and spluttering, I started to get dressed but got both feet into the same trouser leg and fell against the side of the vanity unit. Fortunately no blood but a sizeable “goose-egg” on my forehead.

On my way down, I tripped on the mat at the foot of the stairs and fell on my face. My right elbow and my left knee got skinned and my nose bled. I then had to change my bloody shirt and my trousers, which had torn at the same time as my knee.

Determined to halt this string of unfortunate accidents, I carefully arrived in the kitchen.

But it was not to be!

I burnt my toast then clumsily dropped my soft-boiled egg on the kitchen tiles. It smashed into smithereens and left a smear of soft egg across the floor. I wearily cleaned up the mess and returned to my toast since another egg was out of the question. I hurried to tidy the burnt-toast-crumbs and swept my mug of tea over the edge of the granite. Another fine mess I got myself into.

After cleaning up again it was time to go to work – breakfast-less.

Ultra-cautiously, I left my garage. I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached the main road without incident. Stupid move! As I turned out, a large branch fell from a tree and crashed onto my bonnet. I nearly cried but, manfully, got out, wrestled the monster off and hauled it to the verge. I left it looking smug and self-satisfied. (As much as a branch can look smug and self-satisfied, that is!) Back in my car I put on the radio and tried to relax. It was impossible. I was so distressed. I jumped at every noise. I kept looking over my shoulder to see the next accident approaching. Generally, I behaved pretty much like a cat on hot bricks.

About half way to work, I ran out of petrol. By now my cuss-reflex was on maximum. I mumbled loudly to myself – I used all the words my wife disapproved of. It didn’t help because now I had to search my car in case she’d left an unobtrusive tape recorder.

I had to walk to the nearest petrol station. I borrowed a can. Had it filler and returned to my car. I spilled about a quarter of the fuel trying to pour it into my tank.

I got to work about thirty five minutes late, smelling strongly of petrol. My boss was not impressed. He threw a few scathing remarks in my direction, most of them, unprintable. This, of course, lightened my mood considerably!

I slunk to my office. (Or should that be “slinked”? – Shows how distressed I am – worrying about grammar at a time like this!) I closed the door and opened all the windows to get rid of the petrol fumes. After the start to my day, I am seriously concerned that someone might strike a match in here. I had only started to get organized when my door opened and one of the ladies stuck her head in. She immediately wrinkled her nose.

“What did you do in here?” she asked. “Planning to set the building on fire in revenge for the chewing out you got, are you?” This was already too many questions so I sat like a stuffed animal. She added another one. “Like coffee, would you? You look as if you could use some.”

“Yes please. Black, no sugar,” I managed to grunt. Back to organizing, I got as far as taking a piece of paper and boldly writing “Things to do today” before the door opened again and my coffee arrived.

The lady, who shall remain nameless, (In my flustered state, I’ve forgotten her name!) brought the mug to my side before trying to carefully place it near my right hand. “Left- handed!” I said, shortly. She quickly tried to switch sides. Too quickly as it turned out. Her elbow caught me on my cheek and she dropped the mug. It landed upside-down in my lap.

“Aaaaarghhh!” I said, intelligently, as I jumped up very quickly and danced painfully round the room.

“Hot. ….Bloody hot.” I managed, by way of explanation.

It took a while before my crotch got even remotely back to normal. Meanwhile the lady had rushed out and come back with a bucket of water and a cloth.

“Thank you,” I said through clenched teeth. “I can manage. Please tell everyone that I am not to be disturbed. I have a lot to do today.” She nodded and left.

I dried the floor and my chair and, finally, my crotch, which was throbbing like a motorbike engine. I slumped behind my desk, drained to the ultimate of drained-ness.

I got through the day safely by barricading myself in and refusing to talk to anyone. I kept movement to a minimum and never left the office because of the coffee stain on my trousers. At home time, I waited until everyone had left before I rushed to the gents to relieve my bladder then escaped. I didn’t tidy up in case I got attacked by a notepad or a crazy pencil or a serial-killer file.

Leaving the car park was fraught with danger from other cars, (not many left) the automatic boom and the security guard. I negotiated all of them without incident but couldn’t relax. After all, I still had to get home. I drove like a learner – leaving twice the following distance, going ten kilometers an hour below the limit and signaling 50 meters before turns. I was stopped at a traffic light not far from my house when the tail-gating-idiot behind me, couldn’t stop and shunted my car into the intersection. I was side-swiped by a car going through and bounced into the light pole. My car shuddered to a stop and so did I. I only started operating again when the idiot came to my car and bad-mouthed me for stopping so suddenly that he couldn’t. I lost it and opened my door so sharply that he stumbled backwards. I stiffly got out. He came rushing back towards me with his fists swinging, so I hit him as hard as I could just under the breast bone. He folded like a burst blow-up mattress. I photographed his license disc then removed his wallet, took all his details and replaced it. I exchanged information with the driver of the other car. Fortunately he’d seen everything. We agreed to meet at the nearest Police Station, the following morning, to file the accident reports.

A while later, I walked into my house with a bit of a limp from the dog-bite and the grazed knee and a bit of a “born in the saddle but never seen a horse” bow-legged stumble from the scorched crotch.

My wife glanced up. “Why are you walking like that? What happened to your face? You don’t look so great. What’s the matter?” she said, in a flood of words.

“Nothing, dear. Just one of those days,” I replied.

“By the way,” I added. “I bought lottery tickets. I listened to the results on the car radio. I won 50 million.”