The bottle hit the ground with a nerve-jangling whoomph and splatter. Plastic, so it didn't break.
But the impact and the fizzed-up contents blew the lid off, sending the Diet Pepsi-fuelled one-litre bottle scootering across the road like a drunken motorbike in a You've Been Framed clip.
We're only missing the Harry Hill voiceover.
I amble after it and pick it up from where it comes to rest.
There's maybe a tenth of its original contents still inside, all foamed up. I give it to J.
She takes it from me with a look that is eight parts contempt to two parts despair. "You are so clumsy," she says. [1]
I can't really argue. Admittedly, it wasn't me who had decided to buy some bits and pieces in Poundland after we'd already bought our shopping and the 5p plastic bag we'd bought for it was full.
But it was me who forgot to bring a bag-for-life from the car. That said, she didn't remind me to.
Even so. Clumsy. That's me. That's always been me. I am thinking about this as we drive back in the car and as J swigs what's left of her Diet Pepsi [2] while complaining that people will think she's a jaikie.
The conclusion I come to is that there is a gawky, gangly, generally hopeless 12-year-old boy still living inside this middle-aged schlubby body.
It's not difficult to come up with evidence. The other week I dropped a bottle of sparkling water (San Pellegrino; we know how to live) inside Tesco.
At least this time I actually managed to get the bottle out of the shop before fumbling it.
Over the years I have dropped so many bottles, so many cups of tea (mostly full, mostly on my groin), so many wine glasses and tumblers (prior to inevitably standing on the shards. With my bare feet).
Falling upstairs (once while leaving the cinema in the middle of the film).
I may even have dropped the odd baby in my time, but I'm not swearing to that for fear of being sued in later life (and anyway I'm pretty sure I caught them before they hit the ground).
I've pulled a boiling hot kettle down on myself. I've tripped over nothing. I've closed the car door on my fingers.
More than once. I've brought the (hatchback) car boot down right on the bridge of my nose [3].
I've damaged myself in countless minor ways over the years on a regular basis.
Just as well we don't have a garden. Can you imagine the damage I'd do with a hedge-strimmer?
It's a miracle I've reached my fifties with ten fingers intact. Come to think of it, that's possibly my greatest triumph.
[1] Feel free to insert the words "in exasperation" at this point.
[2] Don't drink it myself. Horrible stuff.
[3] Look closely enough and you will be able to see the scar.
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