During my 45 minute lunch break I was responsible for the death of a person. More specifically, my breasts were responsible for the death of a person. More specifically, by person I mean a lady bug. It has been a truly harrowing last hour and to be honest, I'm struggling to cope with what we have done. By we, I mean of course myself, Sharky & George (my front luggage).
This is how it happened... I was strolling back from the park towards the office trying to work out which character in Oliver I would most like to play. As I've mentioned before, my walk to the park takes me round the semi-circular buildings that (I assume) are the ones from Oliver! where the Old Gentleman lives. If they are not; they look exactly the same and they certainly should be. This often leads to me singing (mostly in my head) as I walk round there, but today I was trying to work out whether I'd rather be The Artful Dodger or Mr Bumble and generally not paying a lot of attention to the world around me.
Then a lady bug flew straight down my top. I was immediately uncomfortable - usually I am only afraid of small things when I am approaching sleep. This phobia only concerns things that could feasibly get in me while I'm snoozing; really I don't think it's wrong to be afraid of that at all. It's perfectly logical. Who wants to become spider pregnant via the bum whilst they're napping?
But obviously a lady bug nestling in my chest is not an ideal situation. My immediate response was to try and fish it out immediately, but the scope of my chestical region compared to a lady bug is quite large and it wasn't an easy assignment. Also, there are an awful lot of builders working in the area at the moment and a couple of them had started to look at me like I migth be a park nut. I couldn't very well mouth "Lady Bug" at them, because then they'd know I was definitely off my rocker. If I'm going to get labelled psycho, it's going to eb for something I've legitimately done which is crazy - of which there are many options.
I decided the best thing to do would be to try and act as a safety vessel for the little blighter until I could get safely back to the office toilets and set him free. Have you ever tried to walk with a lady bug incubator attached to your torso? It is not easy. At first I tried to just walk very carefully but I realised I was clenching my bum cheeks and the builder nearest me had cocked his head to one side: I looked like a park nut with toilet trouble. So I had to do something about keeping the chest as still as possible; curses to not being able to move the damn funbags. If only we had a little bit of muscular control over them the entire event would never have happened. And also I could hold drinks. Or do semophore.
Trying to casually keep my boobs still with a hand just made it look like I was giving myself a post sandwich perk up and that plan was quickly abandoned. I thought back to my lady training (watching Miss Congeniality and laughing at Michael Caine) and tried to glide back to the office. It turns out I'm not a natural glider. Well, technically I would be a natural glider if the pavement was flat but it isn't. And, as much as I wanted to keep my lady bug safe; I was in grave danger of doing a stupid toe stub trip flat onto my face and losing my teeth. There is only so much you can glare at inanimate paving slabs before you realise you should just start picking up your feet.
By the time I got back to the office and tried to evacuate my bra it was too late for my cargo. He had perished.
I wasn't entirely sure what to do with him. Flushing only really seems appropriate for fish, I couldn't get the window open, and the sanitary bins make it very clear that they only have one purpose or the world will end. So my victim is wrapped in some tissue in my bag until I can get home tonight and give him a proper burial.
I think I may have entirely lost my grip. I might go and tell the builders they were right all along... at least they might help me dig a grave.
No comments:
Post a Comment