ACT ONE
In a MYER change room, I am trying on a dress that costs twice the amount even available in my bank account. I love it with the deep intensity you can love something that will never be yours- Javier Bardem, for example, or a reasonable mortgage in Sydney.
I regretfully remove the dress, and return to my normal outfit, which suddenly seems shabby and inferior.
AND THEN
I can only assume that somehow the assistant has cast the evil eye on me in revenge for being *that* customer who tries on an eye-wateringly expensive item which is obviously well outside her means (“oh, for you?” the assistant asked doubtfully, when I walked into the change room) taking up room in the change room for more well-to-do browsers.
You know those door latches, which look like this?
The door latch was nothing like this, but this is the best Google could offer.
Well, as I left, the sharp edge of the door latch caught that soft inner part of my upper arm.
Sweet mother of Zeus.
The pain was immediate. I went deeply red and breathed heavily through my nose. A nice older lady helped her daughter pick a formal dress gave me a sympathetic look.
The assistant smiled.
ACT TWO
I was sitting on my sofa, watching many hours of trash tv, as is my wont. My brother was sitting on the other sofa, studying hard for his engineering degree and reading newspapers, activities which really solidify his position as the successful one of our family.
I was sitting with my legs under me, partly because I always do and partly because it is freezing in my house and my husband wants to “save” the “environment” or something similarly ridiculous and meticulously well-researched.
After watching four satisfying episodes of various Kardashian shows in a row, I got up to refill my hot water bottle.
I love you all, adorable Kardashians
AND THEN
Out of nowhere! My foot which I had been sitting on was suddenly a limp rubber blob which literally collapsed totally beneath me, and I crashed dramatically down on my brother. His computer fell on the floor, revealing that he was browsing Buzzfeed and not studying engineering at all.
My foot immediately swelled impressively, and I hobbled for a day or two, but when I realised no-one cared, I stopped.
ACT THREE
It had already been a morning punctuated with drama and shock twists. I had taken the day off work to attend a full day seminar at a University far, far away. I won’t name the university. Let’s just say it begins with “N”, and ends in “Ew South Wales”.
When I got to the university, observed the tiny children attending it and reflected upon my advancing age, found my class and sat down, it became rapidly apparent that in fact, this was not my class at all, and in fact, I had misread my timetable and my class was in October.
I left and got on a bus to the station. Now, I am a knitting hobbyist, and had brought my knitting with me to pass time on public transport. Only when putting that into words do I realise how old that makes me seem. I don’t even have the external trappings of cool, to be able to pass off my knitting as ironic.
I was knitting on double pointed needles, which look like this:
They do actually look like tiny weapons
I got a little too enthusiastic about my knitting, and realised I missed my stop, which is a fairly central stop, evidenced by the fact it is literally called “Central”. Unfortunately, I had only realised I had missed it when the driver stopped, and yelled, “this is the end of the line, everyone off”. I had travelled by now 30 mins in the wrong direction.
I hurriedly put my needles in my knitting bag, and went to cross the road.
AND THEN
Somehow, one of the needles got caught between my legs, while I was full stride. I noticed when I stepped forwards, and suddenly had the feeling I was being gored in both legs.
Following hopping around saying “ow ow ow ow OW” and rubbing my inner thighs vigourously while stanging on the side of the road in a manner which must have looked quite perverted, I called my husband in order to garner sympathy.
He laughed heartily, observed that I had been betrayed not once but twice by my knitting in a single session, and suggested that knitting was more of a blood sport than we had originally thought.
END ALL ACTS
I end the week battered, bruised and damaged by three of my favourite activities; shopping for items I could never afford, watching Kardashians and their adorable antics, and knitting. I stagger into the next week braced for the future indignities it may hold. Wish me luck, single reader from my stats, who I am not entirely sure isn’t just me on my work computer.