Mr Rooty Tooty

I stood on a nail on Saturday night.

ARGGHHH! Fucking hubris....

My girlfriend doesn't watch where she puts her feet. It drives me mental. Asides from generally controlling her body like an electrified flid she also sends her legs swinging and crashing about around her. It's not the end of the world. I may be a horrid person for even noticing but she treads on my feet at least seven times a day. It puts me on edge. I'm constantly on dogshit alert for two as well.

On Saturday she trod on a load of Dreamies- ie some small crunchy cat treats that are not exactly cheap if I remember correctly. Looking back they were probably not highly visible but they are EXACTLY the type of thing I look out for at all times.

"You trod on those fucking Dreamies you clot!" is what I said. One of them was toast. She smiled a serene smile and stilted off elsewhere like a pair of disturbed calipers. It's almost as if she is on a drug that miraculously transforms my noise into plaudits of impressed love. Like smack.

I kicked the mash under the sofa and tried to recall previous incidences when girls had trodden on things I felt they should have seen. But I could only remember all the times Fat Moz had trodden on dog's tails, they'd yelped, he'd nearly swallowed his roll up, he'd steadied himself against the wall and adjusted his bottom bottomed glasses and brought both his eyes to bear independently in a series of uncoordinated sweeps in an effort to locate the source of the problem and then seemed aggrieved to notice an injured mutt.

'Y'bastud!'

He'd probably spilled some mild.

So really I'm going to pretend that I left all those floorboards nails up in a dark room as a demonstration and rolling test of my lightfootedness and continuous vigilance. Which is exactly why I was so fucked off when I ran to answer the door and one of them went right into my foot and I fell down a hitherto unsuspected hole in the floor in a fusillade of crashes and 'cuddly wuddly beary beary boos!'.

I walked down the pub and I deliberately put weight on the wound because I felt that somehow avoiding doing so was unlikely to punish or toughen me sufficiently. I then drank and walked back on it. Obviously the next day my foot looked like something someone had just pulled a ripcord out of.

I just wish that when I have accidents they weren't always apposite. They almost always fucking are! if I could just keep my gob shut I'd have less accidents.

I was trying to tailor the story so that it completely wasn't my fault, fearing later reprisals (such as 'you twat!'). But my girlfriend just muttered something vaguely sympathetic and mentioned the fat camp bloke we both know who got cellulitis after standing on a plug which caused me to point the finger and say 'He never fucking goes where he's watching, I've watched him!'.