there is always one…
Well, that phrase was made for me, because, I have found in my life, if something can wrong, then it will.
I am one of life’s unfortunates, and by now, you think I would know better and take measures to try to avoid getting into situations designed to shame me.
Before Christmas, I had one of ‘unfortunate incidents’.
It was the Saturday before the big day and I was traveling up to the north to see my family, armed with a carful of presents, three excited children, and a boot loaded with bags and clothes.
I was super keen to return back to the land when words are pronounced properly and I can eat my mum’s cooking.
The car was filled with petrol, I had even checked the oil and tyres.
Oh, and I was dressed for the journey, wearing a tutu.
To explain, I was dressed in a bold red tutu, with a Santa’s hat on my head, and tiny black vest top, all in the name of charity.
That morning I had been working out at the gym, raising money for my mountain climb in Morrocco. The session had overrun and I decided that it would be a wise move to travel the 180 miles back to my parents in the clothes I worked out in as opposed to dragging the kids home, shower and changing, to end up battling holiday traffic and being late for my mum’s yorkshire puddings.
It seemed like a good idea at the time….
The kids were fed and watered, they had been forced to empty themselves on the toilet, I myself had been three times. I was confident of a clear run. My legs were firmly hidden by the steering wheel, and I thought my Santa suit may bring a smile to my parents eyes.
I’ll confess the tutu was a little itchy to drive in, but my arms felt lovely and warm by my white shoulder snug.
We set off, hit the road and it was all going according to plan, the motorway was clear, and festive tunes were blasting out on Radio 2, myself and the children were singing along merrily.
It was a perfect journey, the sun sat high in the sky, the children were behaving themselves…
Libby-Sue suddenly turned green and vomited all down herself, the floor and the back of my seat.
Nothing can kill a Christmas journey like a soggy sick.
And Jaysus, it was a serious amount of sick, coating my just one month old new car….
Nothing can turn you redder that Santa’s sack than having to clean sick out of a car wearing only a tutu.
Apart from perhaps, having to go into the petrol station and beg for napkins and wipes, whilst trying to ignore the fact that you are dressed in a tutu with a Santa’s hat fixed to your head.
The only upside to the entire mortifying situation was; as my ass hung out of the car door, covered in netting, and as I retched in unison with the twins as the overpowering smell of puke threatened to kill us all, an elderly chap who came over to the car.
He coughed quietly behind me, and I pretended not to hear.
He then tapped me on the shoulder, so I could not ignore him more.
I turned and he beamed at me, and told me….
‘I just have to tell you, you have simply made my Christmas.’
Then with a last lingering gaze at my arse, he skipped off merrily to his car, with a smile bigger than Blackpool pier.
I was glad someone was happy….
I am never driving in a tutu again…
…or without wipes!
One of life’s unfortunates, I am, it could only happen to me.