“You should never run after the bus or the boys Hilly,” my granddad always says. Never having been one for doing either I had never really taken in the importance of his wisdom. But I can safely say that after last summer I will definitely think twice before ever attempting either again.
The boy episode was just a standard girl wants boy- boy does not give a shit kind of deal. So as usual girl got a grip and moved on. It is never a good sign when you have to chase them anyway. Then the summer moved on as well and I found myself in different hunting fields altogether. The truth is I was mainly in fields actually, the proper muddy ones, but then I have always been better with the horses.
The bus episode was a lot worse. I was actually left with a rather unattractive scar from it. I was having an unusually busy week at work and on Friday morning I tried to do a hundred meter sprint along the main road at 06.36 in the morning. In hindsight I see that it was not a great idea. But there I was running like I very rarely do with my handbag in tow and my skirt pulled up and the buss driver, bless him, decided to stop and wait for me. Luckily he didn’t pull over into the bus stop but just stopped and blocked the traffic, because as I had only about ten metres left and crossed the road behind the bus I went flying. Properly flying, as in all six foot of me ended up sprawled out in the middle of the road between the bus and a rather amused driver in the car behind. There wasn’t really anything there to trip me up so I think my lack of fitness just got the better of me and my feet just failed to pick up as instructed. But some sort of survival mechanism must have kicked in quite instantly because I somehow got myself off the ground and into the bus with all my belongings rather quickly, despite having taken most of the weight on my already dodgy knee.
I made it to work with what was turning into a rather bad limp, having purchased plasters for my knee and a coffee for my nerves. A quick inspection revealed that apart from my bleeding knee and sore hands there was not one stain on me. Unbelievable. Being dressed in white from top to toe it was some sort of miracle really.
The morning was spent wrapping up a delegation that had visited us for a week and I didn’t even have time to sit down until after lunchtime. That was when I realized that I had actually split my skirt right up the back. The stitching had given in and left me – well with a split that would have made any stripper blush. And I thought people on the street were staring because I was limping so badly.
So as usual the lesson was learned the hard way. But I have actually started to listen a little more carefully to granddad’s many words of advice. Although I don’t quite know where never use force, after twelve belongs to tomorrow and always buy Mitsubishi cars will leave me…
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