My sister told me a sweet story recently about her five year old daughter, who came to her parents one evening and asked what they wanted most in the world. My brother-in-law replied that he most wanted his family to be healthy. My sister explained that she just wanted her family to be happy. “And what do you want most in the world?” my sister asked her small daughter, who let out a long, theatrical sigh. “I just want all my dresses to be glittery.”
We hooted with laughter, of course, but it made me pause for thought. What do I want most in the world? Well, of course, all the usual: healthy, happy children, ripe tomatoes for breakfast, a decent oven, world peace… but personally? Shall I tell you what I want – even though I suspect my dreams are less likely to eventuate than the glittery wardrobe? Well, OK, but I am doubling my chances by making two wishes. Number one wish is to realize a dream I have dreamed since I was about the same age as my niece: to be a published writer. Number two wish: I long to be graceful. If you have read my piece about my ‘glamourous’ spa day in Puerta Galera, you will know by now how graceful I am not.
So I am delighted to tell you that my favourite writer, Bill Bryson, is just as clumsy as me. And he also longs to be graceful – although he, being male, uses the word suave, as in: “I ache to be suave.” But my thesaurus assures me that suave and graceful mean much the same thing.
Fame, it seems – though it may eventually provide a wardrobe choc-a-block with glittery dresses – does not necessarily bring grace or suavity… suaveness?…whatever… But Bryson uses this to his advantage by telling many witty and self-deprecating anecdotes about his inability to travel through life with any decorum whatsoever.
In one article he is at the airport and can’t find his frequent flyer card at the check-in desk. Desperate for air miles he goes on a mad hunt through his bags which results in a broken zip, a profusely bleeding finger and a whirlwind of papers, passports and pipe tobacco across the length and breadth of the departure hall.
I empathize. I also have a bag that eats things. It swallows receipts for breakfast, my keys for lunch and my lipsticks for afternoon tea. I have been forced to upend it in the street many times in a mad search for my frantically ringing cellphone hidden somewhere in its depths. I envy Mary Poppins her efficient and magical carpet bag that happily regurgitates everything from lamps to umbrellas at the flick of a wrist.
Like me, Bryson is disaster prone and seems to excel at creating catastrophes. Airports and airplanes have a habit of providing the most humiliating scenarios. He is, for example a complete klutz with food and drink – not a popular skill when travelling economy. In one article he describes how his arm takes on a life of its own, causing him to fling his drink over his unsuspecting neighbour. Not once, but three times. He claims it is the only time he has heard a nun swear.
I have only travelled in Business Class once in my life, and never with a nun, but it is unlikely I will ever be asked to turn left again, after throwing my orange juice across myself,my small, equally accident-prone son and two seats only moments after putting down my hand luggage. But I am proud to think that I resisted the temptation to blame my poor, damp son. Just!
One of my favourite of Bill’s stories is not related to flying – exactly – but 
is about ice-skating. Imagine the scene: a cold winter’s day, the sun glittering on the snow, and Bill eager to join in the winter fun with his children, foolishly promises them that he is a great skater and dashes down to the frozen pond. He then proceeds to prove he is neither Torville nor Dean, as, confronted by so much slipperiness his legs get totally over-excited and take off in different directions, his body parts and internal organs ‘hurling themselves at the ice’ until he finally falls in a heap, spread-eagled across the pond, looking as undignified and ungraceful as Yours Truly skating on slippery feet across the massage parlour.
So perhaps I, like Bill, must accept uncoordinated as a birthright – que sera sera, as the song goes – and will attempt to retain some dignity by dodging any offers to skate, ski or otherwise hurl myself about voluntarily.
But perhaps I can still dream of becoming a famous writer!
*Article originally presented at Toastmasters, and with thanks to Google Images for the pictures.