Avatar Do the splits

Congratulations! You’ve made it to the age of forty. After an uphill struggle through some difficult times you’ve made it and you’ve made it in one piece. Now all you need to do is sit back and enjoy the view through these novelty binoculars.

It seems as though I can’t go a few weeks without making a fool of myself. Last week I got lost driving back through Gateshead and almost drove into an industrial estate and then accidentally drove through a bus lane. That was fun. I don’t really have much of a defence other than it was dark and I was hungry so my hunger caused me to drive the wrong way. That’s what I’m going to write to Gateshead Council when they send me a letter asking to pay a fine for driving like a clown.

Let’s do something a little more contemporary though to really illustrate the fact that I’m potentially getting worse. Subjectively. Gingerly. Crimsonly.

It’s the end of the day and I am striding to my car. I don’t walk anymore you see I stride. I’ve got the prestigious job and the happy life so I take a manly stride to get me around places now. As I approach my car I see that the car next to me has parked a little too close because everyone is terrible at parking. I can open the driver door however it requires a bit of manoeuvring (I can never spell that word) to hold the door so I don’t smash it into the other car but also leave enough space to get my sorry ass into the seat. I manage to get my left leg in and I hear it, the sound that I have heard a few times before. I don’t feel as though I have lunged too far however by the sounds of things I have crossed a line and one that once crossed cannot be undone. I may as well have put my foot in the footwell of the adjacent car for what it’s worth.

I know the sound because it happened to me about a year or two ago. That is the sound of my jeans splitting. That is the cold air reaching my bare skin which up until recently was covered by my jeans. The material could clearly not take the isometric shapes my legs were making whilst trying to get into the car and now it’s all over. I still have to pick up some food on the way home and luckily I have some jogging bottoms in my gym bag, which is stashed on the back seat. In Asda car park I hide momentarily behind my door and pull them on over my now sagging jeans. Nothing left to do but stride around picking up what I need and head home like a grown-up, a grown-up wearing two pairs of trousers.

9 comments on “Do the splits

  • We all know that sound. It is a bad sound.

    I ripped a t-shirt once when I was running down the hall in my old flat in Streatham. The hall ended in two steps down, which I completely missed. As a result I did a sort of out of control spin through into the bedroom, where the back of my t-shirt got wrapped around the shower room door handle and pulled a great big tear all the way across it. But the reason I was running was to get my car key because a parking space had opened up right outside, so I just went out and moved my car with my back on show.

  • I bet they were desperate to turn around and gape aghast at the flesh on display. It would have made the papers; MAN PARKS CAR SURROUNDED BY LUXURIOUS FLESH OGGLERS.

  • When I finished my 37-point parallel parking manoeuvre and got out of the Nissan Micra, it was all I could do to run back to the safety of the flat without being overrun by hordes of scantily clad people in a state of sexual psychosis. Thankfully I made it home unscathed, and was able to put a different t-shirt on.

  • Wow. I never knew Streatham was so full of nymphomaniacs. No wonder you moved away from there. You were the new Craig David no doubt, bumping away with honeys from *checks* Wednesday to Saturday.

  • Are you telling me that, when you got out of your car after your drive home, you were not mobbed by insatiably horny locals who had sensed your newly-crotchless jeans? That’s a shame. Life in Newcastle seems pretty lacking if that’s the case.

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