They really are
So, by the Monday morning following the last insane week, I was pretty
shattered, my sleep pattern having been blasted to hell and I always tend
to be a little on edge when on call, never knowing when the phone might
ring again. It’s just not conducive to sound sleep. So, I crawled groggily
out of bed around 7am, grabbing the first set of clothes I could find and
headed out on my bicycle in the dark for the train station.
Unbeknownst to me, the trousers from that set of clothes were a pair
which, two weeks ago, I had discussed with my wife regarding a rip in the
seam; she had examined them and pronounced them beyond repair. They had
been lying on the top of the chest of drawers awaiting disposal. So, I was
now wearing the clothing equivalent of a ticking bomb. Wallace and Gromit
- Wrong trousers, eat your heart out!
Suffice it to say, that at some point during that day, I sat down heavily
in my chair, snagging the pocket of the already terminally weakened
trousers on the chair arm. This caused the rear seam to rip – a lot, and
as I stood up quickly to try to stop the tearing, I worsened the situation
terminally, ripping the seam all the way from my arse right down the leg
beyond the knee. Realising my plight, I ran for the toilets, pausing only
to grab a stapler, hoping I could effect some kind of temporary repair
sufficient to last long enough to get me to a shop.
I sat in the toilet, trousers off, waiting for people either side of me to
go out, fearing the noise of the staple gun would give them the impression
of some weird perversion – so I sit listening to the various noises,
waiting for a flush or dryer to mask my stapler clicks. I seemed to have
hit peak hour, and there is a bloody queue of people using the cubicles
either side of me, but eventually after about 20 minutes and 200 staples I
think I’m in with a chance, so I put the wretched trousers back on and
leave the cubicle.
Unfortunately the material was so frayed that the staples gave up without
a fight, and as I emerge from a meeting, a colleague leans over saying
“you do realise, your trousers are split all the way from your arse to the
floor…” as I leave a trail of small metal objects in my wake.
After reaching my chair and taking cover there for a while, I’m starting
to think in terms of how I can roll the chair all the way home, and how I
can get onto a train with it. Eventually I run for the loo again, this
time collecting a roll of sticky tape as well as the stapler to use as a
sort of reinforcement. Wish I had some duck tape. Anyway I reach the loo,
same ritual as before except worse this time, because I now had the added
pervy sound of tape peeling off the roll, but eventually I emerge, and I
am seriously dreading what anyone in the adjacent cubicles is thinking
(actually I’ve given up now, so it’s pretty much click – screeeeeeaapsh –
well, that’s the best approximation I can give in words to sellotape
peeling off a roll) and I exit with what feels like a large staple stuck
in my bum.
I notice the female COO (who lives in a glass office right behind my desk)
is now giving me very strange looks – probably because she’s been mooned
at all morning and has seen far more of me than she feels is necessary -
she’s not been in her office since Monday now!
Finally it’s time to go home, and it seems the temporary repair has held
up. But then, disaster – my jacket sleeve has wound itself around the
wheel of my chair, and the only way to untangle it is to bend over and
pull it out. If i bend over there’s no telling what might happen.
Why is fate conspiring against me? Was I Genghis Khan or Atilla the Hun in
a previous life?
Finally I resolve the problem by picking the chair up, placing it on my
desk, and wrenching the damn sleeve out of the wheel. By now though,
everyone in the near vicinity, including the COO behind is looking at me
as if I am a complete lunatic wondering why on earth I am putting a chair
on my desk, yanking at a jacket while I am looking as if I’m about to
burst a major blood vessel and mincing around trying to keep my arse
Finally, I move stiffly, but as quickly as I can out the door heading for
The repair ½ lasts for the change of train at Surbiton, where the repairs
start giving way again, but I am able to conceal it by sitting until the
last second until the doors of the incoming train are about to close. By
the time I reach my stop, the flaps are wide open again, but I’m on home
ground now, and run for my bicycle. Amid quite a lot of hoots from
following cars, I pedal home frantically. Wife is just hysterical with
mirth, and I have to admit, even I at this stage see the humour in it,
though Daughter is actually chastising her mother for being so mean to me -
On changing into a less damaged pair of trousers I find several strands of
sticky tape stuck to my underpants, and a number of staples to boot. They
doggedly remained attached to there, where they hadn’t been stuck, but
refused to bind to the wrong trousers. Typical.