To Hell In An M&S Hand-Basket

"Dear Dutch person in the new Marks and Spencer's in Amsterdam: it is not polite to poke someone in the stomach and tell the person you poked that they don't need sausages, when you overhear said someone asking an assistant for the whereabouts of the afore-mentioned sausages.

And for some reason, because you must be at least in your fifties, and aren't some little kid that may or may not know better, it feels much worse."

I can imagine this must be what pregnant women feel like when unwanted hands reach towards their unborn child in the hopes of...? What? Rubbing for luck like you do the tummy of a bronze Buddha? (Except without the insults and actual poking aimed towards an obviously dangerous-to-society, and disgusting gut. Although then again, that may depend on the intentions of the potential tummy burnisher.)

I had my tummy poked occasionally when I was at primary school, as part of the usual bullying. Never truly painful in reality, spiritually it was like a branding, although once a 'friend' did actually punch me hard in the stomach after she passed her driving test. Her type of celebration merely continued her theme of being my main bully when we were younger, but I do remember the shock, the being winded, and the trying to congratulate her, all in one.  

But a grown-ass woman. And a complete stranger at that. Leaning across my sadly un-be-sausaged basket, a big bunch of flowers (an after-concert gift) and a shop assistant, to poke my stomach and ridicule me in public because what? She thought being a rude bitch would suddenly make me see the light and disdain M&S Pork and Apple Sausages forever more as being the means of my continuing portliness? I ... It still renders me speechless. 

I wish I had had it in me to stop her in her tracks and ask her her intentions. Were they for good or evil? Did she really feel, after our intensive life-sharing few seconds, that her comments were aimed true, that they would make me turn around and see the error of my sausage-loving ways, and embrace a new, sus scrofa dometicus- and malus domestica-free lifestyle, be astounded seeing the weight fall off rapidly as it would so naturally do following her few seconds of 'advice', and thank her eternally for her insights into my be-larded life in making me into someone of whom she would approve. Or was she really just a bitch, in it for the shits and giggles, and left feeling better about herself, because she had made someone feel worse about themselves?

To be honest, had I had it in me to stop her at all, she would have had a perfectly lovely bunch of roses smacked across her face, possibly followed by an empty Markies hand-basket. I hope she realises how lucky she was in verbally and physically attacking someone with very little want to spar, with words or with carrying implements.

There's no lesson to this modern-day fable, except perhaps be wary of Amsterdammers in the butchery section of M&S. They're blunt, mean, and obviously not sausage-lover lovers.

Band Of Bothers

"Nic has suffered injuries from exercise before (but includes tripping over the Wii balance board and twisting her foot in this dubious list, so you may have to take its validity with a pinch of salt) but this is the first time she's received a welt on her hand from an exploding resistance band."

I may have mentioned my clumsiness before. It is a Thing. But it's not a Fat Thing, for I can be the most graceful person in the room; I am freakishly aware of how much space I take up, and will correctly gauge the clearance between people/cars/chairs so as to not nudge anything that may complain/set off alarms/scrape across the floor. Actually, my Fat Thing is to not be seen or heard, but that's a topic for a day that's not already filled with gigantic rubber bands rending asunder and creating the havoc only a gigantic rubber band in the hands of the belligerent and bored Gods of Exercise can accomplish.

No, the Fairy Godmothers who came to bless me at my crib were not your usual fairy tale characters bestowing beauty, brains, and other desirable gifts, and it is a running joke (coined, of course, by me) that when the gods were handing out common sense, I was in the other room, queuing for the chocolate machine. But it is possible to be both graceful and clumsy. I am the poster girl, in fact. I spent ten years of my life learning how to hold myself with poise, to move fluidly and elegantly, to control my body, thanks to the wonderful teachings of Miss White and her ballet lessons, and although Osgood Schlatter Disease* reared its ugly head and put a stop to my pliés and pirouettes, and instead helped me pile on the pounds, my ungainly self still kept its muscle memory and elegance of movement. Just super-sized.  

Yet, as much as I can sashay across a room and not bump in to anything, or avoid tripping up over backstage cables, or even balance in the small space between the orchestra and the edge of the stage without falling to an embarrassing, probably crumpled and broken, heap in front of the first row, you can set a glass of water on a solid, non-shoogly table in front of me, and I'll have it over in 30 seconds flat. I suspect we're all given our clumsy quota. I certainly feel I've been given mine, and most of yours, too, because for sure my lifetime allowance of adroitness is either for someone who should have shuffled off this mortal coil aged fifteen, or it has just been divided up between more worthy owners. 

Just to compound the problem, I do seem have a problem with stairs. Flat surfaces seem to be okay, but add even the tiniest chance of that clumsy gene having a say, and I'll fall down one step and break my foot, trip up a step and break a toe, and miss the kerb whilst crossing the road, fall and seriously damage my knee so badly that I now suffer from an unresolved haematoma; where the swelling from the initial injury and bruise has yet to go down. (I've been told it will do so in time, but just now it's rather like have a hot-water bottle strapped to one's leg.)

I can't guarantee being whipped by a shredded resistance band is pure clumsiness, mere bad luck, or a sign I've offended the workout gods, but it's not the first time I've been clobbered by my exercise equipment. Remember the Wii boxing Bloody Nose Debacle of October 2012? Perhaps I should consider an investment in full-body riot armour, just to be on the safe side.

*OSD, originally classed as 'growing pains' affected my father, my brother, and myself in different ways while we were growing up. It stopped me from being able to bear my weight when I bent my knees, it stopped me being able to crouch, kneel, run or dance. By the time the symptoms were becoming less pronounced, the damage had been done. Muscles had shortened, tendons had weakened, weight had been gained. Nowadays when someone is diagnosed with OSD you are prescribed physiotherapy once the initial symptoms have improved, pain killers, exercises. Back in the day we were told we would grow out of it. I'm left with knees that don't bend properly, I can't crouch, and I can only kneel if I'm balancing on my patella, which probably isn't particularly advisable. I'm hopeful that eventually losing weight, plus the addition of concentrated stretches and the general building up of very weak, and underused muscles may bring back some semblance of normal knee joints. Only time will tell.