Sunday – as in, not yesterday but the Sunday before that – was a glorious humdinger of a day. I have already mentioned many of the wicked-cool occurrences here on this blog. But I didn’t mention one significant event, so I’ll mention it now.
On Sunday, I found myself at the house inhabited by my grandmother. I decided to go to the toilet. I think you’ll agree with me that there’s nothing unusual about that – as a matter of fact, I’m astonished that Tom Jones never mentioned it in his song, It’s Not Unusual.
I walked to the bathroom and closed the door. There was a time when, because the door was a little too big, this would be a fatal action – after wedging the flap shut, it would take a flurry of kicking, screaming, blood, sweat, tears and chipped paint to get out again – but that time is long gone, as a builder has apparently since shaved some wood off. I was even able to make use of the recently-installed latch – sure, I wasn’t worried about someone walking in on me by accident, but one may as well make use of such a facility when it is available.
I did what I had come to the loo to do – I won’t go into great detail about this, because I’m aware that you might be nibbling a nice snack as you read this – and then it was time to wash my hands.
I turned to the sink. There it was, underneath the mirror, a light, and a shelf.
Then, I headbutted the shelf.
I’m not quite sure how I headbutted the shelf. I think I might have tripped over the bathroom scales, or something. I certainly didn’t trip over the bath mat, because there wasn’t a bathmat, and it takes quite some skill to trip over something that isn’t there. (Although of course, a prodigal genius like this one is, I’m sure, more likely than most people to be able to manage it.)
The point is, I headbutted the shelf. In a flash, it was transformed from a sturdy surface on which toiletries could securely and reliably balanced, to a wonky distressed damsel. Everything fell off – the toothbrushes, the toothpaste, the dental floss. Even the mouthwash was spilt.
It was terrible. Carnage. The shelf was hanging on one bracket like it had been in a fight with a spotty, shaven-headed youth called Vince.
Except no, the shelf had not encountered a spotty youth named Vince. It had simply encountered my head.
But this youth, though not named Vince, has also been mildly spotty recently. And as a result, this youth has been using Clearasil. This does as it is supposed to minimising the spottiness, but the trade-off is that my face is as smooth as a baby’s bottom.
“What?” you exclaim in puzzlement. “What’s wrong with that?”
Well, dear reader, the baby’s posterior to which I refer is that an infant suffering from the unfortunate condition known nappy rash. Which isn’t quite so smooth and soft and wonderful; so deep and crisp and even.
And how does this relate to my incident with the shelf? Let me explain.
Although, of course, the sudden impact when head and shelf met appears to have wiped my memory and rendered me incapable of recalling what really happened, my hypothesis is that I was just shocked to see in the mirror the reflection of my crusty, crispy face, made so crispy and crusty by Clearasil.
Really, I needn’t bother. The spottiness is minuscule – using any type of Clearasil is like cracking a sledgehammer with a walnut – and the dry skin makes it like then going on to hit your thumb by mistake.
Suffice to say, my deep cleansing lotion is staying in the cupboard for a while, as I would rather have a few “zits” and moist skin than some wilting blackheads and crusty, horrid skin. Perhaps it’ll remain there forever, although you never know when the elephant will escape from the local zoo and require someone – as in, me – to stand in for it.
Never let it be said that I am not prepared for anything.