"Are you drunk?"

Those were the words that my wife-to-be uttered last night when she found me clinging hopefully to the dustbins for support.

I'd been out to the gym with David, my brother-in-law to be. I'd not been inside a real gym for about five years, I have a few weights and things of that sort at home and so begrudge having to pay for the usage of someone elses. I didn't mind so much in this instance though as there was a special offer going on and it would offer a little male bonding time with my new family.

So weights were lifted, grunts were grunted and male egos were patted all over the place.

After the dramatic spectacle of manliness, followed by the macho steam room and jacuzzi and quick dip in the chilled pool (I say chilled to be polite, in actuality there was a polar bear one end clutching a hot water bottle and shivering) it was time to return home.

Now I felt bad for leaving Eva at home with the baby so was eager to get back and give her a hug and snuggle on the couch while casually boasting to her about my manliness, so when David (before driving off) commented that the front door had been left open for me, I trotted happily up the garden path to jump through the front door and see my baby.

Seconds later it became apparent that the transparent sliding outer door had remained closed, and continued to remain so even after 17 stone of artist attempted to plough through it.

Bloody good job those bins were there to break my fall.


So twelve hours and a ice pack later, I have two small watermelons growing out of my forehead and a nose that feels like it sneezed over Mike Tyson.

The glass door is fine.

G.