Reasons to Hate Pigeons, Part 43.982
I am returning to my tower block after the gym - groceries in my backpack and one plastic bag - when a guy comes out of the reception door. He sees me, does a double-take at the door swinging shut, then rushes to grab it for me. I am halfway up the concrete steps that lead to the entrance. My brain hits a glitch because suddenly I'm trying to sprint towards the door, I'm tripping, I'm hitting the edge of the stairs with my right knee (my right hand going straight into a puddle of pigeon shit), my face bouncing on the toilet paper rolls (lucky landing) that also hit the ground, my glasses going crooked on my face.
The guy asks if I'm OK, but doesn't let go of the door. I pick myself up and giggle nervously. I tell him I'm OK. I've got pigeon shit on my hands and on my right knee. He holds the door open for me, his eyes never leaving my hands. I make more noise about how OK I am. My knee hurts like a bitch.
Clothes are now in the washing machine, and I've had a much enjoyed shower. Send kisses to my knee's bubu.
I'm so glad that wasn't iejw. I'd have died of embarrassment.
The guy asks if I'm OK, but doesn't let go of the door. I pick myself up and giggle nervously. I tell him I'm OK. I've got pigeon shit on my hands and on my right knee. He holds the door open for me, his eyes never leaving my hands. I make more noise about how OK I am. My knee hurts like a bitch.
Clothes are now in the washing machine, and I've had a much enjoyed shower. Send kisses to my knee's bubu.
I'm so glad that wasn't iejw. I'd have died of embarrassment.