I have known people who live by Murphy’s Law: if something can go wrong for them, it will go wrong. Sadly, Mrs PM is one of those people.
Now I have to be careful here because Mrs PM does actually read the nonsense I write and, posting about how scatterbrained she is, may cause me serious pain. So instead I will relate to you an unfortunate incident involving an old friend of mine that demonstrates the point perfectly.
The story illustrates a common mistake that anybody could make (or so my mate said – I’m not sure that I believe him). Picture the scene. At university a group of us were in a night club trying to look cool at the edge of the dance floor and make eye contact with the females in the place. I was failing miserably and horribly (as usual).
Of course, several beers had been consumed and we were all slightly tipsy. My friend, let’s call him Wally, was struck by an irresistible urge to answer the call of Mother Nature. Unfortunately for him, this would not be a quick call. In retrospect I was aware that this might have been the case because the look on his face had become more and more desperate as he had tried to hang on. I mean did he honestly think that it would “go away”?
Ultimately Mother Nature was very insistent and told him in no uncertain terms that he had a choice. Either he find a toilet NOW or she would not be responsible for the consequences; he chose wisely and quite literally sprinted to the toilet.
“Gents” toilets in nightclubs the world over are worse than the third level of hell and this particular toilet was no exception. This is possibly the reason why Wally had hung on for so long. Knowing that he required a cubicle rather than a urinal, Wally raced into the “Gents” and burst straight into the nearest cubicle. Unfortunately, it was occupied – by a woman!
In extreme panic, and as if it would make a difference, he mumbled an apology and fled. Such was his embarrassment and distress that he was out of there in a flash and into the other toilet, safely ensconced in a cubicle before the worst happened. As he sat down, his embarrassment at having entered that “Ladies” by mistake was momentarily subdued by his relief. It took a while before his alcohol soaked brain registered the fact that he had made a colossal error and seen a girl perched on the throne.
As he sat there waiting for nature to take its course, he considered what had happened and decided that perhaps he had got away with it. After all, in his mind, he had left the poor woman so quickly that she had almost certainly not seen him properly. Perhaps it was his confused alcohol-addled brain that convinced him he was fine.
But it wasn’t fine at all.
The toilet door burst open and in ran a hysterical female hotly pursued by her friend.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!” she said.
“What’s the matter?” said her friend said.
“I’ve just done something terrible. I’ve just wandered into the “Gents” by mistake. There I was, sitting on the loo when this bloke burst in and caught me with my pants down. I screamed!”
“How did you manage to go to the wrong loo?” said her concerned friend.
“I was in a hurry …”
The conversation continued.
Wally’s world collapsed around him. He had not made the initial mistake; the girl had. The original toilet was indeed the “Gents” and he was now perched on a throne in a cubicle in the “Ladies” toilets.
To make matters worse, just about every other woman in the night club chose that precise moment to go to the toilet. Girl after girl poured in; some tried the cubicle door (which thankfully was locked); others chatted about guys in the club; still more reapplied their make-up. Wally was deafened by the chatter but his brain filtered out all of that; all he heard were the words of the girl he had upset as they boomed into his head.
“I feel awful,” the unfortunate woman continued. “I can’t go back out there: I might bump into him. I’m going home.”
“You can’t go home,” her friend said. “He won’t even remember you – that’s if he’s still in here.”
And so it went on …
… and on …
… and on …
… and on …
Wally by this time had long finished his business and sat there waiting for the girls to depart, hoping that the Earth would split open and swallow him up. Sadly, the girls remained, discussing her trauma for what seemed like an eternity. To make matters worse, he had been on the throne for so long that his legs were becoming numb. He had been sitting there for ages, his elbows resting on his knee and his face cradled in his hands, shaking his head in despair.
Desperate times called for desperate measures; Wally had to act.
“I’m so embarrassed,” continued the girl. “I can’t think of anything worse.”
Wally bit the bullet. He opened the door and walked out of the cubicle at that precise moment.
“I know exactly how you feel,” he said to the girl as he casually walked out.
This is typical of Wally. I have another couple of tales about his exploits that I may save for a later post. Moreover, I have stories about Mrs PM and others proving that Murphy’s Law does have favourite victims.
The sting in the tale for poor Wally on this particular occasion was that he had spent so long perched on the throne, with his chin cradled in his hands, that he had large red handprints on his cheeks for about fifteen minutes. To make matters worse, he actually fancied the victim of this particular scatterbrained incident. Unsurprisingly, she was long gone by the time he considered how to break the ice – I think the ice had been nuked already!