The day started brightly, a gorgeous Spring morning and I was in high spirits, probably because it is Friday. I thoroughly enjoyed my walk to the station. The sun was shining, the tide was high, the fishing boats were on their way out and the light was reflecting of the water in spectacular fashion. It would have been a photo moment if the cheap batteries I had bought from a newsagent hadn't died after barely 5 photos.
Dressed in my favourite white shirt, which had been expertly ironed by my wife (bless her little cotton socks), I was feeling rather dapper, debonair even. I love going to work feeling smart and professional, as opposed to looking like the cat dragged me in after finding me floundering in a muddy ditch.
Rather ironically I was chuckling to myself about Mr London Street's hilarious milk on crotch incident, which reminded me of my own toothpaste on crotch incident which occurred fairly recently.
I picked up a coffee from Cafe Nero on the way in. Sitting in the office I was just finishing the coffee, neck craned right back, when the stupid plastic lid popped right off. Time slowed right down, I heard the pop, a gurgle, and the rushing sound of coffee, the sound of doom if you like. It spilt all down my crisp white shirt, and in a feat of deadly marksmanship completely drenched my crotch.
I've spent the rest of the morning looking like a cat found me floundering in a muddy ditch, dragged me in, and then watched me piss myself.
A helping hand, ca. 1910s
3 hours ago