Murder? You Can Accuse Me Of That: Never (Unless I do a murder when I’m older, but it’s not on the agenda).

I almost killed a man yesterday.

By ‘killed’, I mean ‘scarred’. And by ‘scarred’, I mean ‘hurt a bit’.

My demented legs and I were walking around a hospital in Southampton (visiting my aunt; I don’t just hang out there) bringing a cup of boiling water back to the ward when I saw a young chap walking towards me.

My initial thoughts were “OH SNAPS! We’re wearing the same shirt*” to which my feet and legs responded with “WOAHOHOHWHOAOOPSYWHOACAREFULWHOAAAAAA” and I tripped. And stumbled. Just as my shirt twin was walking up (in my face, actually. Right in my path. Bad walking etiquette, I feel) the water went flying (OK, a bit splashed out) and caught him in the chest. His bare chest. It wouldn’t have been such a catastrophe** if he hadn’t have been wearing such an indecent top under his unbuttoned shirt. He was all trendy and wearing a V-neck that showed off a tattoo on his chest; not just that, I almost saw his nips. I think it was a million sizes too big – like it actually belonged to Fat Joe or something.

Oh! How we laughed. Awkwardly. A millisecond passed and we were on our respective ways.

That’s the story of how I almost killed a man.

*I’m not Butchy McWearsMansClothes or anything, I’m just going through a phase of wearing men’s check shirts (because they are longer) with leggings. Or, if I’m feeling daring, NOTHING ON MY LEGS. I know, I know. Such a tease.


**It actually wasn’t a catastrophe at all but nothing else of note happened yesterday.

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