Trouble Is My Middle Name (Not)

Image by express000 via Flickr

What’s the most trouble you’ve ever been in?

Before I answer this one, I must apologise for the dullness of the story that’s to follow.  I keep telling you I’m a good girl; now you might believe me.

As a teenager, I went with a group of friends on the bus to a party.  There were eight of us and as we approached our stop, the four of us nearest the bells, pushed them.  It wasn’t deliberate but there was momentary delay between each push, so it dinged four times.  All the old people on the bus tutted at us.  We were mortified.

I swear that’s the most trouble I’ve ever been in.

I did break the law once, and not get caught.  As a child, I stole one of those string bags oranges used to come in, from outside a fruit ‘n’ veg shop.  I’ve never gotten over the guilt.  I wouldn’t mind, but there weren’t even any oranges in it.

This prompt came in two days ago and it’s taken forty-eight hours to dredge up one sorry episode.  I think this may go some way to explaining the flights of fancy in my posts: if I want excitement, I have to fabricate it.

Bonus: Tell the story of how you got into trouble, and how you got out.

We got on the bus at the beginning of the journey; and off it at the end.

 

No Comment

Image via Wikipedia

Reading the comments yesterday, I was reminded of myself.

In my second year of study, new text books arrived from the Open University. The courier was broad Scouse and obviously an Everton fan because he gestured to our car (the Hub has Manchester City pennants in the rear window) and said, ‘A Light Blue, I see.’  Puzzled, I replied, ‘No, it’s dark green.’

Our relationship went downhill from there.  It was obvious he believed a university education was wasted on me.  I should be a professional witness instead.

Then there’s my paranoia that the Government spies on me (the Labour Government, obviously; the Tories are on my side and governments never spy on their own side).  We have an outside bin cupboard where we stored our rubbish and paper for recycling.  I kept a lock on it so that no-one could access it, find an old receipt and know that I spent half my income on Maltesers (and new trousers) (half my income on Maltesers refers).

It was a combination lock and I was always careful not to think the combination as I unlocked it, in case the government read my mind and discovered it.  There were several years of chanting ‘Hickory Dickory Dock’ to mask my thoughts every time I took out a bag of egg shells before it occurred to me that if the Government had the technology to read my mind, then they could probably sort out a cheap combination lock with their collective eyes closed.

I bet you’re thinking round about now that instead of a professional witness I should be a professional idiot.  I never fancied a career in politics, however: I think they spy on people.

Hello? 

Where’d everyone go?