"You know what would make this scene more poignant? Some Spanish guitar music."

Oh dear, sweet Lord on a pogo stick. I’m sure you’re all now well-acquainted with the fact that for someone who is, objectively speaking, really very clever, I am amazingly, inconceivably stupid most of the time. It is the tiny tragedy of my otherwise joyous life. I do stupid things all the time. It’s like there’s a tiny bomb of stupidity located approximately 6mm north-north-west of my right eardrum which explodes on a regular basis, causing disruptions throughout every electrical circuit in my brain and leading to idiotic decisions and half-witted speeches.

“Shut up!” I hear you cry. “Or at least give us some details of your latest idiocy so that we may mock from afar.” Very well. I shall oblige. My story begins thus: I awoke this morning, as I do most mornings. I climbed out of my tiny bed and went and wandered round the flat, had some toast and cereal, got dressed and so on. At quarter past eight (five minutes early, pray you note) I left to go to work. So far, so good. This is an excellent morning for me. Anyway, moving on. Caught my train. It was on time. I had a seat. Life was smiling upon me and frankly, at this stage, I should have suspicioned that something was going to go horribly, dreadfully awry.

Got to Waterloo (on time). I stepped out of the train and reached into my bag (I’m currently using my black Yorick bag, just so you know: nothing says responsible adult like a stylised Shakespearean skull) to get out my wallet.

This, my chickadees, is where the ghastly horror begins. Forget the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Discard the Amityville Horror. Cast the Exorcist from your mind. This is the good stuff right here.

No wallet. No fucking wallet anywhere, therefore no oyster card and no money. I remember that my wallet is currently at home, in the hall, coyly nestling inside a canvas bag. I curse quite a lot. I curse a bit more. I telephone Emma to let her know the sitch. She laughs at me. Quite a lot. I surreptitiously sneak off the platform, wander through the halls of Waterloo, and finally head towards St Thomas’ Hospital, where there is a bank. Get to the bank. It’s closed. Of course it’s fucking closed. I loiter in WHSmiths, looking, I fear, slightly suspicious. Bank opens. I ask for money. “Do you have any ID?” asks the bank lady. “No, I bloody don’t,” say I. “I LEFT MY WALLET AT HOME BECAUSE I AM STUPID! Ooh, Amazon receipt! Will that do?” “No.” Bugger. (I feel a disclaimer is due. This conversation was the product of my fevered mind. The conversation actually went thus: “I would like to withdraw some money, please.” “Do you have any ID?” “I’m afraid not, no; I left my wallet at home. Amazon receipt?” “No – do you have a driver’s licence, or passport?” “No. I have my cheque book?” “OK, you can write a cheque.” However, that is less intrinsically amusing, so I LIED.)

Anyway, blah blah, got money, got tube, got to work. Wrote a tiny poignant lament about how stupid I am, which I present forthwith:

A Tiny Poignant Lament on My (Literally Lamentable) Stupidity
~set to the enthralling music by Andrew Lloyd Bach, “Think of me, think of me fondly…” etc~

Weep with me
Weep so damn sadly
Promise me you’ll cry

Wail with me
Wail like a banshee
Emote and flail and sigh

For I am sad
So really very sad
So sad my heart is bleeding tears

Because I am fucking stupid
Weep and wail with me