I fall over – a lot. And it’s mostly when I’m sober. At the weekend, I managed to get my own boot lace shut in my front door and went tumbling forward. It would have been funny, only for the 6 month old baby strapped to my front. Baby was fine, so it turned out funny in the end and left me with yet another bruise.
But why do I fall so much? I’m not dyspraxic (my mother-in-law is an expert and shortly after meeting me, made me perform a series of tests). I have no other disabilities that I’m aware of. I’m just clumsy.
My husband thinks differently, he says I’m careless, I fail to risk assess properly (huh?) and like life in general, I just plunge right in. It doesn’t help that my spatial awareness* is non-existent. My head thinks I’m a size 8, so when I try to squeeze my post-baby size 16 arse through a small space suitable only for posh spice – it ain’t happening.
But there is something really funny about seeing someone fall over. With this is mind I put an appeal out to friends for their falling over stories. I’m going to publish them on this blog – but one of the responses shone through so I’m posting this one first. Read it, picture it in your mind and I'm sure you'll go to bed laughing, just as I did. Read it here.
If you’ve got a funny, sad, outrageous, crazy falling over story to share, let me know – or simply add a comment.