These Things Come In Threes
19 November 2012 | North Wales
Cathy
Monday
It started with a broken bottle of wine. I’d ummed and ahhed about buying this bottle – wine seems so expensive here and it was only for me to have a little tipple when preparing dinner. But it was half price and I succumbed. At the checkout I packed it carefully into one of those bags designed for the purpose – you know, the ones with the little extra pockets inside. I don’t usually manage to do this as it can be a bit fiddly when all your items are coming past the till at a rate of knots that would please any sailor.
But I was having one of those rare, ‘in control’ moments. They don’t come very often these days, haphazard and flustered being the more usual state of affairs. I blame the menopause. But today I’d even parked the car without having to go backwards and forwards half a dozen times, my bags were all lined up ready to be filled and the wine just slotted neatly into a pocket. It was when I got home it started to go wrong.
Somehow I kept getting sidetracked while unpacking the shopping. The fridge needed a little wipe over before I put anything else in, the cupboards a bit of reorganising and what was that on the radio? The shopping gradually piled up on the work surfaces as the bags emptied. Unnoticed by me, the wine, neglected and still upright in its pocket, was wobbling precariously in the by now otherwise empty and unbalanced bag.
It finally toppled over the side of the work surface, bringing its bag with it. The first I knew of it was the sickening crunch as it hit the tiled floor. It didn’t just smash, it was positively pulverised. Tiny shards of glass swam in an ever increasing pool of fragrant sauvignon blanc. Some of it was contained in the bag, glinting in dripping nooks and crannies. No point crying over spilt vino, of course, but the air did get a bit blue.
By the time it was all mopped and the glass wrapped ready for disposal I could hear the bin lorry backing up outside. No time like the present for getting rid of it, then, and I might as well chuck that tub of elderly tomato salsa at the same time. So, sucking my lacerated hands and balancing parcel and sauce I opened the front door. You’ve guessed it. Seemingly in slow motion, the tub hit the floor, spraying chunks of tomato and juice as it did so, anointing walls, carpet and trainers.
These things come in threes. I’d bought a can of oven cleaner. I couldn’t get the top off. Should I use a knife and lever it off? Not on your Nelly.