This weekend I was the inadvertent orchestrator of a series of disasters, the kind that make my husband roll his eyes and mutter “Jaaaane!” (first name, Calamity).
1. To kick off the proceedings I lost my Michael Kors watch. And I’m fond of having it on my arm, rather than lost somewhere. I thought I’d left it at my friend’s house so badgered that poor love by text but – after turning my flat upside down – I sheepishly discovered it was hiding in a random box in my room. And I have no recollection WHATSOEVER of putting it in there.
But the celebration was short-lived.
2. I then discovered I’d lost both our marriage certificate and my passport. By this point I was pretty sure that Tony Baggins would rather the marriage certificate actually BE lost so he could quietly annul his lifelong union to this lifelong idiot.
I was in floods of tears at how ridiculous it was to lose two such important documents.
I was krying at full Kardashian volume
I’d had to send the documents off for a new driving licence, but they’d definitely been posted back to our flat, I remembered that much. After searching EVERYWHERE – and most places 15 times just to be sure – I became increasingly terrified that the envelope containing both certificate and passport had been thrown away by someone. “Someone” obviously being moi.
I decided that I just would not accept the fact they were lost. Accepting that meant accepting that I was a complete and utter TOOL and weekends aren’t the time for feeling toolish. They are the time for feeling particularly footloose and fabulous.
So – randomly – I chose to exert some of my nervous energy by going into work to check my desk drawers…as a last grasp at success. It was the kind of pathetic-fallacy-esque driving rain you learn about in GSCE English as I cycled my tear-stained face over to the office, praying the whole way that the envelope would be there – although it had no reason to be.
And guess what?! It WAS there! Jesus was looking after his homegirl! I arrived back happy as Larry, if Larry is at his happiest when he’s soaked to the skin with identity documents stuffed down his bra.
3. My final moment of anti-glory was on Sunday morning with an early train booked to visit my sister and brother-in-law. It slowly dawned on me – as we arrived at the station with only 10 minutes to spare for Baggins to grab a McDonald’s breakfast– that I’d never received the acknowledgement email for my booking, which meant not having the bloody annoying reference number to key in at the machine to pick up our tickets.
With a specific train to catch we nervously joined the back of one of those train-station-queues-of-utter-doom, behind people whose trains don’t leave for another 12 days but don’t like buying tickets from machines. Or online. Or slightly nearer their day of travel.
Instead of the breakfast he’d been dreaming about, Tony got the second best thing: an emotionally unstable woman
But the sun shone on us again as we made it to the front of the queue, and off to the platform, JUST in time. Tony made do with an old cereal bar he found in his bag as I stared out of the train window, wishing my IQ was higher than 4.
When we arrived my sister said, consolingly: “I cried today too! I couldn’t work out what shoes to wear. I thought sandals then started crying ‘cos I was scared it might be too cold for sandals!”
Being a total disaster woman runs in the family which is both comforting and not comforting at ALL.