There is saying about pants that goes something like: “well if I get run over and end up in A&E I want to make sure I have clean pants on” as a reason why pants should always be clean and semi decent. And shameful pants should be ditched, or only worn when you are not leaving the house. It’s a saying I have muttered a few times in the past. Followed by a gleeful giggle of “it’ll never happen but it is a good reason to wear semi decent pants at least”.
So it is disappointing that there have been two occasions recently when I have not heeded that advice and now bitterly regret it.
Firstly, Sunday morning. Tired. Hot. Rushing to breakfast having only woken up half an hour before it ended. I wouldn’t have bothered if I hadn’t been desperate for a cup of tea (there were no kettles or tea making facilities in the hotel rooms). Talking to a friend, walking side by side down steps (oh god the steps in this hotel, sodding steps everywhere) I missed that one particular step had a slight ramp on it to make it join a little patio to the right. And yes, you guessed it (or have seen it on twitter as I haven’t shut up about it). And my right ankle went from under me and I ended up spread eagled across said little patio.
Unable to move. Unable to stand up.
Unable to cover my substantial arse with the short sun dress I was wearing as it flashed my pants to the world.
My not posh pants.
My “I have pulled them up a few too many times and the waist band is coming away from the pants bit” pants.
The “white bits are no longer white” pants.
The “black bits are no longer properly black” pants
The old pants that I had thrown in the suitcase as I needed eight pairs and couldn’t find any others so they would do pants
The pants that you hang behind the big towels on the washing line so the neighbours can’t see them when you put the washing out.
I was only going to breakfast. I didn’t need shorts and a t-shirt. I needed tea. The sun dress would do, I could change later
The old pants would do, I could change later. After I had drunk some tea.
So as I rolled over on to my back in absolute agony the ever caring Mr B gently pulled my dress down to cover the front of said pants and at least try and restore some kind of dignity to this very much dignity-less situation.
There was then much scurrying for ice and painkillers (top tip travellers, NEVER leave home with out a bag of co-codamol and other assorted pain killers) and muttering about how to get my sorry arse and the sorry pant situation down the rest of the flight of stairs. And then up the next flight back to the hotel room. We got there in the end and a sheet saved me from any further pant shaped embarrassment as I lay on the bed whimpering all day and people dropped in to see how the
accident prone idiot patient was doing.
The second pant episode came on the way home. Still unable to stand up I had perfected the art of directing from the end of the bed as Mr B had taken charge of packing and getting us home. He asked which clothes I wanted so he could dump them on the bed to allow me to get dressed, and he could pack the rest before jumping in the shower.
As I pulled on the pants I realised whilst posh, they weren’t mine, they were Ellie’s. She is a size six in the pant department. I am a size 18. Given that Mr B doesn’t really pay much attention to ladies undergarments he hadn’t noticed. Nor had I when I went through the laundry basket to find clean things to take away. So I threw them back in the suitcase and unable to rummage for another pair, and with Mr B in the shower, I thought “sod it” and just pulled on my leggings. Sans pants
It wouldn’t matter, we were only doing the airport and going straight home.
Nobody would ever know.
Except Mr B had decided we were going straight from Gatwick to A&E
Where I needed an x-ray.
And the very likely possibility that if the swelling continued I would have to remove the leggings or have them cut off.
The need to not have to lose what was left of my dignity was more of a relief than learning I didn’t need to take the leggings off, or that the bones were not broken.
That some dignity might now be restored felt almost as good as finally getting home.