Just because I was having a gentle dig at those morning disasters yesterday doesn't mean I'm immune to them, which I then started thinking would only be fair to share.
Like walking around Padstow (in Cornwall) with my lovely long skirt tucked into the back of my knickers until some old dears kindly told me so.
Or the time I had just purchased some absolutely beautiful boots with buckles, patent leather faux snakeskin long pointy toes (it was the 80s, and I know it sounds like a bad teenage movie, but it really was the thing to be wearing, and I was a teenager). Riding the escalator down to the tube platform at Manor House and just as I got to the bottom, a trainload of decanting passengers arrived just in time to see me get one of the blasted toes stuck in the grill at the bottom and splat head first across the floor. It doesn't matter how long you lye there, face down and hope for the ground to swallow you up. It won't.
Or the time when I wasn't really slightly pissed and was wearing wedges (stoooopid stoooopid shoes) and slipped off the steps at Leicester Square tube and tumbled all the way down, bag contents flying all over the place. I was badly behaved and snapped at all offers of help. Much to the boyfiend's aghast embarrassment.
And then there's the time when I went to the loo at lunchtime after a really important meeting and discovered I had a big black smudge across my forehead, most likely from the dirty underside of the tube escalator handle earlier that morning.
Oh and being told by my boss to pull my shirt down because I'm flashing some waist skin. Only not being sure which is better, waist skin or too much cleavage (poor choice of top - not quite long enough either direction, and usually I would go with cleavage but it being work and everything..).
And everyone's got a piece-of-spinach story.