Fell down some stairs on the way home from work yesterday, like the right clumsy muggins that I am. Well, I fell halfway down them, to be absolutely precise - I managed to catch hold of the handrail with a combination of chin, thumb and right man-boob, all of which are now bruised (the thumb coming off worst with a nasty friction burn as well). If I hadn't done that, I would probably be in hospital right now.
Unfortunately, I didn't manage to catch hold of said handrail in enough time to avoid banging pretty much every other bit of my legs. Both ankles, both knees, the big toe on my left foot, and my right shin. I am some very interesting colours in the leg department, under all that hair. I look like I've been paintballing with hobbits.
Now, I'm not one to seek or even expect sympathy. I mean, I'm pretty clumsy at the best of times, and I seem to have a real genius for self-inflicted comedy injuries, so I have come to expect that when I do something stoopid I'll get a "point-and-laugh" response. But still... I was a bit miffed at the sheer delight that Mrs. Monkey took in phoning my parents yesterday evening so that they could join in with all the hysterical laughing.
The worst bit? The absolute worst bit? I hadn't even been drinking.
I am so ashamed...
Time for my annual Public Service Announcement on dress sense and weather.
Ladies - I am aware that the sun is shining, and that it is unseasonably warm out there. I am also aware that you have been stuck in Glasgow for the duration of one of the most unpleasant* winters in recent memory.
Please Note: When you choose to sunbathe halfway up the concrete steps, you may not realise the extent to which you are flashing your undercarriage, particularly when you doze off.
Now, I'm fairly gentlemanly, for a monkey - were I single, and desirous of a look at your knickers, I'd do the decent thing and get you drunk first. As it is, I'm happily married, and (crucially) have absolutely no wish to see your knickers.
Thank you for your kind attention during this announcement. Normal service will be resumed shortly.
*Unpleasant, cold, but strangely beautiful.
The Laser Harp was invented by Jean Michel Jarre.
It had to go. At the point where I left the house yesterday and the wind gently tugged at its extremities, I realised that I had passed the point of no return. I mean, it had been four weeks to the day, and had grown to ridiculous proportions; old ladies had taken to crossing the street to get away from it. Children had been known to cry - grown men too - and dogs everywhere were barking and growling at the sight of it. Somebody pressed ten pence into my hand as I waited for the train, "for a wee cup of tea".
So, Au Revoir, beard, it was fun while it lasted, but you were starting to make me look like a tramp.
I really do wonder about my masculinity, on occasion. Not very often, I grant you - I've never been what you might call a "manly man". More "monkey man" than anything else, to be honest. But still.
Picture the scene: I am in my sitting room, with the Big Light on. (something important must be occurring, for the Big Light is never switched on, except for Momentous Occasions - just ask Peter Kay) Meanwhile, Mrs. Monkey has fallen asleep on the couch, taking up every available bit of space...
I, therefore, am not sitting down, let along stretching out supine in an attitude of solipsist relaxation. Oh no. I am busy. Ironing. Her tops. And - wait for it - watching The Devil Wears Prada.
Worst of all, I think I'm enjoying it...
I am so ashamed.