Stop Giving Me the Third Degree.

It's Glam here, the boiled magpie in a medieval feast. That's right, in the wee hours of this morning, when I was a bit tipsy, I decided to make soup. Marco Pierre White soup, of some kind of Indian chickens coriander and all sorts. As I carried it back to the sitting room, so I could continue talking to my friend Nickerie, I managed to pour the soup (which was BUBBLING, it was so hot!) all over my right hand, wrist, and all down the side of my Lord Voldemort cloak. Pretty much, to cut a long story short, it hurt like the dickens, and now my hand and wrist are red and swollen and blistered. I sure do some silly things sometimes, but really I was just trying to make sure the living room door didn't slam as it was late. Burned by courtesy. I'm no klutz, generally speaking, but I have made a few blunders in my day. Like the time my sister Pris, and I left the cinema a few years ago, and I forgot what country I was in, so I didn't look the right way when crossing the road and heard a horn BLARING AT ME. I turned to my left to find a double decker bus inches from me, after it skidded to a halt. Pris nearly had a mental breakdown, but I wasn't too worried, after all, I was the boy who lived. There was also the time (now I don't know if this is a dream or a distant memory-you understand) that I was frolicking on my grandparents' back garden wall, and fell into next door's greenhouse roof, smashing it to bits. First of all, who frolicks on garden walls? Does anyone have any silly mishaps they'd like to share, so I don't feel quite suh'daft? Peace out, nukkahs, -Glam