Jewellery factory misfortune

Some days are great and everything is perfect. Others… well, my fervent wish is that I had stayed in bed.

We recently returned from a week on the lovely island of Mallorca, which, amongst other things, is synonymous with a certain brand of high quality pearl jewellery.  

My wife is a fan and naturally a trip to the factory shop in Manacor was high on the princess’s priority list.

We wandered around the premises for some time admiring their comprehensive collection.  The flexible friend in my wallet was exhausted, our companions had expressed interest in taking a coffee break, and I had a desire to attend the little boy’s room.

For convenience I had attached my camera to the belt on my shorts before leaving home, but I had not taken this into account as I loosened my clothing, because as soon as I unbuttoned, the extra weight conveyed my shorts to the floor.

As I was pulling up my Primark’s best, the door opened revealing a man frozen in his tracks at the sight before him. 

 The situation was made worse by the fact that I was sporting my Flintstone underpants and the newcomer was greeted by buttocks portraying a grinning Barney Rubble.

In the haste to hike up my errant Bermudas, I banged my forehead forcibly on the urinal and in staggering backwards, inadvertently dislodged my Ray-Ban shades which fell with a plop into the aforementioned piece of porcelain because, yup, the drain was blocked. 

Gingerly holding my dripping sunglasses and forcing a nonchalant whistle, I rinsed them under the hot tap, which predictably produced only cold water. My erstwhile companion in the meantime had scarpered without even bothering to wash his hands.

I joined my good lady and our friends in the café, where I recounted my bathroom experience much to everyone’s amusement and as they laughed at my misfortune, a familiar but nervous looking gentleman approached our table and asked what we would like to order. 

“Just coffee, no food!” I whispered to the others.