What do you think is the worst curse possible? Avada Kedavra? Crucio? Some other nonsense dreamed up by the esteemed Ms. Rowling and other sundry writers of fantasy? I must beg to differ. I am a victim, you see, of the most vile of all curses- the clumsy curse.
Believe you me, nothing, but nothing, is worse. I'm convinced it’s a curse. I mean, no one else in my family is clumsy, just me, and my two left feet. It’s definitely a curse. A very malevolent, snigger-inspiring, embarrassing, foot-in-the-mouth curse. As an outcome of the curse, I can never open the fridge without something either liquid or very sticky from falling out. I can never carry a glass bottle without dropping it. If I ever have the misfortune to throw a projectile (however small) inside the walls of my house, it will immediately hit the most valuable thing in sight and reduce it to smithereens.(I'm considering presenting a paper on the way " Francis-thrown objects curve in time-space to smash hand- made pottery" at NASA this December)
Believe you me, nothing, but nothing, is worse. I'm convinced it’s a curse. I mean, no one else in my family is clumsy, just me, and my two left feet. It’s definitely a curse. A very malevolent, snigger-inspiring, embarrassing, foot-in-the-mouth curse. As an outcome of the curse, I can never open the fridge without something either liquid or very sticky from falling out. I can never carry a glass bottle without dropping it. If I ever have the misfortune to throw a projectile (however small) inside the walls of my house, it will immediately hit the most valuable thing in sight and reduce it to smithereens.(I'm considering presenting a paper on the way " Francis-thrown objects curve in time-space to smash hand- made pottery" at NASA this December)
The bathroom is my enemy. Just last week, when I was performing my rather splendid Mick Jagger impersonation therein, the curse attacked. My pretty pink bar of Lifebuoy soap (Yes, Lifebuoy. Stop judging me), which plays the role of my pet microphone, suddenly decides to slip out of my hand. In a burst of speed that would have done P.T. Usha proud, it flies up, hits the ceiling, and then, leaving a thick trail of soap down my towel, lands on the floor. I promptly step on it and perform an impromptu version of Swan Lake, before banging my jaw on the tap. As I sheepishly dry myself off with the unsullied parts of my towel, a thin shower of cement from the dent on the ceiling rains down on my gently, and sticks firmly in my hair for the rest of the day. What's the point of it all, I ask you? Life sucks. If I walk to the bathroom in the dark, I will stub my toe at least thrice, and bang my shins at least once. I will drop half the glass of water I am drinking on myself. I always end up feeding my clothes as well as the table every time eat. A demented two-year old could handle a knife and fork better. If I yawn and stretch, I will knock something down. If I carry a candle, it will drip hot wax on me. If I try to pour hot water into a bucket, it will fall on my toes. The Curse. Forget dancing. Forget playing an instrument. The only thing left is to play the fool.
Someone find me an exorcist.
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