I wet my pants.
It was terrible.
It wasn’t a little Light Bladder Leakage from a wayward cough, sneeze or Laugh With Snort.
It wasn’t even my wee.
Or anyone else’s either, for that matter. Which, if I’m honest, does make a nice change.
Nope. It was worse. Much much worse than all of the above.
You see, as I picked my full wine glass off the floor and brought it towards my mouth, I dropped it.
It went all over my pants.
I screamed. Very loudly.
Of course, my family leapt up and raced to my aid; immediate concern generated by my screaming.
No they didn’t. They barely raised an eyebrow. Not even a teensy eyebrow hair. And they certainly didn’t refill my glass.
So, as they completely ignored me, I faced the task of
sucking wiping the wine off the couch.
That done, the wet pants were really annoying me, so I removed them at threw them at the laundry door. This is how I know things need to be washed; the pile of clothing, dirty teatowels and odd socks lying around the general direction of the laundry door.
Pants off, I had to negotiate the length of our hallway, clad only in my knickers and pyjama top.
In typical fashion, it is just as I near the wide open front door, but not quite within range of being able to duck, unseen, into the safety and privacy of our bedroom, that a family wander past the front gate and wave hello.
I do declare I need me some more wine …