The other weekend we took the kids to an adventure, outdoor play area on the edge of a local forest. We've been there many times; in spring to catch tadpoles, in summer for picnics, autumn to rustle among the leaves and in winter to get a Christmas Tree. But all the kids want to do there is play on the big red train in the play area. So, I know the park pretty well; we've exhausted the equipment.
Whilst stood shivering in the wind, I watch The FH on a small "wobbly bridge". (This bridge is about 30 cm off the ground. consists of stepping stone slats that wobble when you stand on them). He makes it to the third slat and wobbles off.
"Did you do that of purpose?" I ask. The FH ia a PE teacher, he doesn't fall off. And besides, I'm sure I've crossed it before. It's easy.
"No. It's hard," he says.
Obviously I think he's winding me up. You know, one of those bloke jokes: I'll get on it all cautious and nervous, when really its easy, therefore I look daft. I'm on to him. There's no fooling me.
"Yeah right" I say cockily, climbing on. I
I'll show him, I think. I'll run across really fast.
I got to the third slat - really fast. then fell off - really fast. I was going so fast, I didn't wobble off and land of my feet like him. I flew off, landed on my knees first, then toppled off and landed on my back, my foot was tangled in something, whilst my other limbs were waving in the air, a beetle stuck on its back.
The FH was laughing so much he nearly pissed himself. He was laughing so much he couldn't even come to help me up. He stood there, his whole body shaking wiht laughter, whist an old dear, abandoned her grandchildren, to run over and help me up. Her efforts were unnecessary, as I bounced up as quick as lightning to convince the whole gobsmacked park I was fine, embarrassingly brushing myself down, romoving a twig from my dishelvelled hair,
When I got to the FH, he put his arms around me "Oh I do love you" he said STILL laughing "You are goofy though."
"Thanks for your help by the way" I replied, glowering at him.
"Sorry but its was just the image of you trying to get up from the fall gracefully, whilst your arse was hanging out the back of your jeans. I couldn't shake it."
Later on, in the car on the way home I replay this and turn to him disgruntled "What did you say I was?Goofy?
"Yeah Goofy." he replied confidently, then catching the look on my face started to retreat "You know, what do you girls call it? Kooky"
(For you Americans, "Goofy" can be loosely be translated as a "Goofball", for the Brits translate as "Clown". I think "Kooky" translates internationally as weird.)
The next day I discovered us "Goofy" people can't strike matches. The gas cooker ignitor needed replacing so I was using a match to light the grill. I don't like using cigarette lighters as I usually burn my thumb. I switched the grill on and struck a match. Fail. Tried again. Fail. I tried to strike a match against three different boxes of matches, three different brands,but not one lit match. In the end, I lit a match using the cigarette lighter and stuck it under the grill. Whoosh! I'd left the damn thing on.
Singed Eyebrows; the mark of a goofy woman.
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