Holy smoke, I sincerely hope the Pope is not accident-prone

I WAS so perturbed about the Pope’s broken wrist, I destroyed the bedroom and set fire to my underpants. You may think this an excessive response to His Holiness’s injury, but at least I wasn’t in the underwear when it ignited.

What got to me was the report that said he couldn’t pray, as a result of his fall. It appeared in one of yesterday’s papers, which the man in my life had thrown on the bed. Needing to figure out why a broken wrist would prevent the Pontiff communing with God, I leaned on one of the bookshelves beside the bed and it gave way. (Any comments on the amount of weight needed to bring down a well-built bookshelf will not be welcome.)

The shelf came down, bringing with it the three shelves below it, together with all of their contents, including books, papers, two open cans of coke, a notebook computer, a radio and a huge mug of coffee. It was a triage situation, where ruthless decision-making was called for. I knew I had to rescue the computer first, then the books, then the radio, from the cocktail of hot coffee and foaming coke without electrocuting myself on the multi-socket extension lead, which was awash. The rescue operation took me so long, I completely forgot about the underwear on the fireguard until alerted by a threatening smell.