In the garden of the bar in which I work, there are a load of outside tables for customers to eat and drink on when the weather is nice; and tragically, this means that hot days consist of me running up and down an endless parade of stone steps and balconies, littered with plates and glasses and worst of all, people. Most of the tables are in one big, triple tiered area to the right of the staircase. However there does sit one solitary table to the left… Table 32. My enemy.

Why the dramatic moniker, you ask? It’s because table 32 lies across a small area of grass, with stepping stones leading up to it; large slabs embedded into the greenery. Now, I don’t know if it’s because of my height, I’m fairly tall, or if they’re just designed to drive people insane like that Chinese torture method where they tie someone down and leave a leaking tap dripping on their head for days, but these steps are not the correct distance apart for one to just normally traverse them. Now, I know I could just walk on the grass alongside the stones, but as small a diversion as it is, it is still a diversion, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some inanimate slabs of rock tell me where I can and cannot walk, so I do at least have to stay the course; which leaves me with but two scenarios…

Scenario 1: I walk normally on the steps. The first few paces go okay, but then my ankles start going off the end, and I have to adjust my walk by taking the odd extra large step, to prevent them from jarring on the edge of the slab. Result: I look like a moron.

Scenario 2: I adjust my stride altogether, and use my long, lanky legs to make awkward, ineffectual, little steps towards the table of presumably very bemused customers,which takes ages and leaves them to question what the hell I’m doing. Result: I look like a moron.

My conclusion? It is fundamentally impossible for me to approach table 32 without sacrificing either my pride, or my dignity.

My solution? Stay the fuck away from table 32.