Every now and then there will be one of those stories published that shows the various mishaps that befall our countrymen. We'll read in wonderment about how 621 people were admitted to Accident & Emergency in 2008 due to trouser-press related incidents. Or perhaps we'll attempt to get our collective heads around the news that 24 Britons have been injured by turkey basters.
What amazes us in this household, though, is the fact that I haven't as yet joined the ranks of embarrassing hospital admittees. Because, it is true to say, I am more than a little clumsy.
Katie spends her days in perpetual flinch mode, just waiting for the next pratfall, dropped item or near-injury to occur. Asking me to do something simple like pick up an item from the kitchen worktop is almost guaranteed to provide comedy moments for the family to cherish. I will approach said item, grasp it meaningfully and lift vertically. Then I'll start the horizontal part of its journey, often without checking whether it's cleared the surrounding items. Before I know it, things have been tipped over and I'm standing in the middle of a rapidly-expanding circle of debris, a confused look on my face.
I'm responsible for the washing-up in this house. Accordingly, wine glasses have a life expectancy similar to that of World War 1 fighter pilots. We were given a lovely set by Katie's dad just before Christmas. Wine glasses, not fighter pilots. They're fabulous, yet ultimately doomed.
But it's not just inanimate objects that are the victims of my cack-handedness. I often come off second-best myself.
I have, more than once, damaged myself with a fridge door. I hear you asking: "How?" It's a good question, dear reader. I approach the fridge, I open its door, and in the excitement that comes with the impending delivery of chilled delights, I somehow manage to forget that the space currently occupied by my head is shortly to be encroached by the aforementioned door. I fail to take evasive action. There is a dull thud, underscored by the rattling of the egg tray.
You know what's most depressing about that last paragraph? The words "more than once". I have the word 'Samsung' imprinted on my forehead in reverse. Like a cat leaving its tail in an open fireplace, I never learn.
Stairs are an occasional hazard, too. I've lost count of the times I've skated down them, with all the effortless grace of an untethered night storage heater, only for my trajectory to be retarded by an outstretched hand. These days it's actually an occasion of note for my feet to make solid contact with each stair.
When they ask who you'd have playing yourself in the movie of your life, it's always a tough question to answer. But in my case, it's even tougher; they'd need to be willing to do their own stunts.