TO anybody passing me in the street, I look like a fairly normal person.
There’s nothing about my appearance that suggests I’m battling a condition that affects me every single day of my life. But I am.
You see I, ladies and gentleman, am ‘clumsy.’
Now I don’t mean clumsy in an adorable way. This is chronic ‘clumsiness’ on a life-changing scale, I am referring to.
This month alone I have smashed no fewer than three bottles of olive oil all over my kitchen floor (chipping the granite worktop in the process) a mug, a wine glass, two makeup compacts and a full-lenth mirror – another seven years bad luck there. Of course I am now serving so many sentences of ‘bad luck’ back-to-back that the rest of my life isn’t set to be very pretty.
Tripping over coffee tables and baskets of laundry is amateur stuff, I’m more likely to trip over my own legs.
When I was living at home, my parents had a Tetleys tea-coloured carpet put down on the stairs to mask all the drips I would leave on the way to my bedroom. I have accidently stood on my cat almost every single day of his life, to the point he now accepts it as normal. I am convinced he thinks I do it on purpose and believes he is the victim of prolonged abuse. I often catch him sitting on the windowsill in the living room, trying desperately to catch the eyes of neighbours.
Four times I have dropped my iPhone into a cup of tea. Four. I hold out hope that someday they’ll find a cure. Until then, I just take each day as it comes.