|Now I know why you should never walk under a ladder. Forget superstition; paint is the real problem. Bright red gloss all over my designer outfit.|
"You idiot!" I shouted up to the bloke on the ladder who was visibly shaken. I didn't even consider that he could have broken his neck if the ladder had come down.
"You knocked the ladder. So who's the idiot." He slid down the outside of the ladder and dropped in front of me.
"But, my clothes!"
"Okay, give me your address and I'll bring you a new outfit. Will that please you, princess?"
I returned to my Park Lane apartment and struggled to remove the paint from my hair and body. The clothes went in the bin. An hour later the buzzer sounded.
"I've brought your new clothes."
I let him in. Two bags of supermarket own brand clothing were handed to me. Flimsy black leggings, a plain white t-shirt and trainer; who does he think I am?
"Be reasonable, it was your fault, and I ain't made of money. Anyway, those will be ideal for our date. We're going paint-balling." Wink!
"Cheek!" I looked at this handsome but rough guy. Well, maybe. "What time you picking me up then."
Thirty years later we're still together. He know buys me designer clothes and I avoid ladders.