Bloody fingernails, port wine - the confessions of a klutz

I've always been clumsy; very little hand-to-eye co-ordination came my way in the big talent hand-out. My brother could play any sport or game he tried, but not me.  As I was so unskilled, I never was that interested in sports growing up.  I became even less so, when I was hit square in the face with the ball, while spectating at an Aussie Rules match - TWICE! The first time was at a 'friendly' match, & the second time I was hit by not only my own team, but on national TV... and they broke my sunglasses.

Not me.

From the age of 3 or 4 I was enrolled at Miss JL's Dancing School & even then I knew something about it wasn't right for me.  At our dance display, while performing a routine to "How Much Is That Doggy In The Window?" by Patti Page, in mid-performance, I refused to turn my back to the audience & shake my bum like a puppy wagging its tail, saying  "my mum says bums are rude".  Being co-ordinated was all too hard & I feigned sore legs shortly after, escaping the world of Ballet, Tap & Modern Stage.  It really should have come as no great surprise when around that same age, when I was taken to the kiddy park by some older cousins, that I would unceremoniously be bashed in the hoo-hah by a playground rocking horse. It appeared that I wasn't even capable of sitting still either.  I still wince & walk funny when I see pictures of these things.

My pelvic floor seizes up even now.

I would never be the stuff
 of shortbread tins.

Later, I decided that Scottish Country Dancing was the thing for me.  From day one at Arthurlie House, I was a lost, stumbling mess. The whole thing seemed to be based around this one step called Pas-de-basque (pronounced pah-di-bah in English) which the teacher kept repeating over & over, rhythmically - "Pas-de-basque, Pas-de-basque, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three". While the teacher looked at me pitifully, knowing I'd never get it, and repeating the words - my mind was blank. What were the steps? What IS Pas-de-basque? I wanted to scream: "I can count to three already! Will somebody PLEASE tell me what to do with my bloody feet?" but, I saved that tantrum for twenty years later when giving up on ballroom dancing too.

My family got that I was a klutz.  They learned not to throw a cricket ball to me if they ever wanted to see it again. My mother learned not to lend me her new white jeans, nor to ask me to pour my dad a glass of port wine while wearing them. The jeans were salvaged, my reputation was not & the story resurfaces every summer, when the plague of white jeans also resurfaces ... Seriously, who asks an unco-ordinated 15 year old to pour a drink from a huge glass flagon, while inside a wobbly caravan and wearing white jeans?..  My dad learned not to take me to work on school holidays, lest I end up tripping over my own feet & landing flat on the concrete, or I get my gloves tangled up in an upright drill (apparently you're not supposed to wear gloves on a drill) .. My dad also loved to point out that in 40 years of drinking, he had never hurt himself, yet in less than 5 I had managed to fall down a 15-20 foot drop & acquire cracked ribs, sprained ankles, sprained wrists, crushed kneecaps, various cuts & abrasions, whiplash & multiple torn & bloody fingernails ... all in 1 night, while attempting to squat behind a bush for a wee.

Armed with all of this information, I am still at a loss when trying to understand why - when my mother was confined to a wheelchair with sciatica, that my dad would ask me, of all people to help him get both her & the wheelchair down the front stairs & onto the concrete patio ..  At this point, I should interject that prior to this moment, I had no knowledge of the engineering of wheelchair design ..  So, my dad's at the top of the steps, my ma is in the wheelchair in the doorway, my dad holding the wheelchair by the handles. The fly screen door is pegged open. I go to the foot of the stairs & reach up towards them. I place my hands on the sides of the wheelchair & lift, expecting my dad to do the same.  Instead, the wheelchair, which is apparently weighted, tilted backwards on the axle, turning my mother upside down & trapping my dad beneath the wheelchair, as he was dragged - thud! thud! thud! down the stairs & onto the concrete.  I scream in shock, my mother screams, my father screams & my toddler son, now utterly terrified, becomes distraught.

Should've bought my parents this

Still trapped between the concrete & the wheelchair, my father screams "Get me out of here, ya fucking fool!". Toddler Boy Wonder screams "My mummy's not a fool!"  I consider getting my upside-down mother out first, but when I see her in hysterical fits of laughter, with her legs in the air - I am overcome with the giggles too.  I laugh so hard that I start to cry, struggling for breath & wheezing.  My father continues to scream "Fucking fool" at me & I laugh even harder, having to cross my legs to stop myself from peeing.  Toddler Boy Wonder thinks I'm crying & starts screaming "Mummy!!" & wailing "Grandad, you stop being mean to my mummy! It was an accident!"  To which, my father screams even louder "She IS a fucking fool!" leaving Toddler Boy Wonder in tears.  All the while, my mother remains upside down, stuck in her wheelchair, unable to do anything else but laugh.  Eventually, we manage to gain control of the situation; get my mother upright, soothe the toddler & help my poor father to his feet - the poor old thing had cuts & bruises down the full length of his arms & legs, where he had been dragged beneath the wheelchair - he was black & blue & bleeding. I felt terrible, but still I was unable to do more than hold my toddler & continue to laugh.

You would've thought that would be the worst that my day could get, but next I had to go into work & explain that I was late to work because I had pulled my parents down the stairs in a wheelchair.  The explanation might have gone more smoothly, had I not burst into uncontrollable laughter and tears about half way through ...