Icy you

In an ideal world, this is how I would traverse the ice

There's usually nothing quite as embarrassing as slipping on an icy path and landing on your arse.
On the way to the shop, I did just that the other day and my ever-sympathetic other half proceeded to cry, nay deteriorate into a blob of teary goo, laughing at me as I did the whole 'I am slipping...oh I think I have rescued myself from it...uh oh I'm slipping more...splat. Ow my arsebone' thing.
But it doesn't end yet and in I went to the local Tesco to get some crap.
The still-laughing ladyfriend waited outside with the dog, whose usual habit is to hold off until at least three or four people are exiting, his cue to defecate with gleeful abandon under the blinding fluorescent lights, watched by the smiling security guard, right at the entrance.
The smiling security guard becomes the 'for fuck saking' security guard.
Anyway, once out of the queue, I realised that all was not yet right.
Through the window, chortling-hysterically lady had been watching me in the queue with a little girl standing behind me staring intently at my arse.
Pervy, eh?
Nope.
She had looked bemused, disgusted, amused and disgusted again, I have been reliably informed. The reason, it turns out, was that my fall had not just almost shattered my spine from the arsebone up, it had left a sizeable wedge of dogshit pressed firmly into my jeans. Delicious.
See you at Wavves tomorrow.