Heavenly Beverley : Why Do Disasters Always Occur In Threes?

Those who know me well would agree that I am not the most coordinated person on the planet. Michael has actually stated, on numerous occasions, that I am unbelievably talented in finding original and innovative ways to break items - and myself.

We have been in each others' company for most of the last ten years. During this timeframe, Michael has frequently been amazed at my individual logic or lack of it. I thought that drying thongs on the edge of an open fire was a great idea. Not so. Pulling a water container along by its spout resulted in a leak that rivalled the little Dutch Boy's dyke. Standing on top of a forty-year-old set of wooden steps was my downfall. Literally.

We have lost count of the items I have destroyed or severely mistreated. Most of my personal bodily mishaps have been the result of sheer inattentiveness. My injury status has reduced markedly during the last twelve months. Having had one knee replacement, I never wish to have another.

Unfortunately, this does not mean I am immune to catastrophe. Most of these events are definitely first world problems. I am sure that if I lived a simpler existence, these instances would just not occur.

Take last Thursday, for example. I was busily vacuuming the bedroom floor, sucking multiple doggy tumbleweeds up the metal tube. If our dogs didn't howl in abject misery at being left outside, I would not have a carpet of dog hair rolling all over the lino planks. If I hadn't been so absorbed in focusing downwards, my frame of earrings, adjacent to my right elbow would not have had a spectacular swan dive under my chest of drawers. After much gnashing of teeth, I located and retrieved all except the final two single missing earrings. I refuse to go through the vacuum contents to look for them. If they aren't still hiding under the furniture, they have gone to landfill.

Hot, tired and sweaty, I was longing for a shower to undertake all essential beauty rituals. Wash hair, shave legs. I had been unable to remove the hirsute layer since the delicious Doctor Daram had taken a large chunk of my lower leg out with a pesky skin cancer eight days previously. Oh heaven. My hair was clean, conditioner insitu and shaving commenced. And then the gas bottle ran out.

Unlike city slickers, the gas for our hot water and the stove is supplied by two bloody big storage units outside our house. There is never any warning when a gas bottle is about to expire. We always wish that the gas does not cease whilst performing a necessary operation. Like showering.

Thus, I endured shaving part of my right leg, all of my left leg, soaping and rinsing under extremely cold water. I am sure I uttered a few involuntary shrieks during all this intimate sploshing. Finally, I exited the shower in a state of high alertness. On went the heater lights. I towelled furiously to warm my goosebumpy body up from hypothermia.

Attempting to part my toothbrush head from its battery-powered body, the head took it upon itself to fly across the bathroom. There was nothing I could do, except watch in abject horror, as my toothbrush head descended into the cat's litter tray next to the loo.

Oh goody...

And so, I adjourned to the East End Gallery, having picked up all my earrings (except two), endured a cold shower and scrubbed my toothbrush head with plenty of soap to reduce contamination. I am convinced I have blown bubbles whilst brushing my teeth for the last few days.

I have survived for four days relatively unscathed. Apart from the pyrex dish that shattered all over the tiles last night...bollocks!