Embarrassing Stories: Three Moments I’d Happily Delete from My Life

We all have moments that make us want to dig a hole, climb in, and politely request that the earth just… finish the job.

And if you don’t? Then congratulations - you’re probably the sort of person who wears white without spilling coffee down yourself. But the rest of us? We’re the walking blooper reel of everyday life.

For reasons unknown to me, I seem to attract these situations like seagulls to bagels (a situation my poor son was met with a few months back - see the story here).

I don’t plan them. I don’t want them. And yet somehow, the universe insists on serving me regular reminders that dignity is a luxury item I’ll never own. Take, for example,

The Neighbour Incident.

We’ve lived in this house for three years. Three. Whole. Years. In that time, the chap at number one has never once acknowledged my existence. Not a nod, not a smile, not even one of those passive-aggressive “You stole my bin and left me with your dirty wheelie” looks. Nothing.

(Yes, that happened. Total accident. An unfortunate mix-up... or at least it was until my husband decided to write our house number on the top... In Sharpie! I think that might have tipped the genuine mistake balance a teeny bit - oops!)

And then one Tuesday afternoon, a few months ago, it happened.

I was walking down to my car when he appeared out of nowhere, silent as a ninja, and suddenly said, “Hiya – nice to see a bit of sunshine.”

My brain short-circuited. And in a panic, I made a noise that could only be described as a feral squeak, followed by what I think was meant to be “Oh, hi”... except it came out as a weird hybrid of a grunt and a fake Scottish accent.

“Oh aye”, I said. OH AYE.

I don’t know why. I’m not Scottish. I don’t even sound Scottish. I think my subconscious just freaked and opted to 'blend in' with a local accent.

He stared.

I stared.

We both nodded in that awkward 'let’s never speak of this embarrassing story again' way. And I frog-marched the kids to the car while seriously considering moving house.

But if you think that was bad, allow me to introduce Exhibit B:

The Asda Boobies Incident.

Years ago, probably eight, my younger sister thought it would be hilarious to teach my then toddler son that bras were called 'boobies'. She found it funny. I, however, was about to enter a whole new level of public humiliation.

Picture this: a quiet Saturday afternoon, me wandering through Asda with a trolley full of snacks and existential regret. We turn into the lingerie aisle (for socks!) and before I can even blink, my son launches himself down it like a miniature tornado shouting, “OOOOO BOOBIES!”

He’s tiny, fast, and extremely proud of his new vocabulary.

He’s running his hands along every bra in sight like he’s conducting a scientific study on cup sizes.

And me? I’m trying to keep up, whisper-shouting “Stop it!” in that desperate parent hiss that sounds like you’re summoning demons.

And then… it happens.

A lady picks up a 38FF bra – large, lovely, and none of our business. And my son? My sweet angel boy, bellows, “WOWEEE HUUUUGE BOOBIES!”

You could’ve heard it in the bakery section.

I froze.

She froze.

My son continued to shout "HUGE BOOBIES" with excitement as I scooped him up like a rugby ball and power-walked to the next aisle, muttering apologies and practically praying for spontaneous combustion.

But my (unrequested, unwanted and un-turn-off-able) connection with situations that can, and indeed do, publicly destroy my reputation isn’t a recent problem. Oh no. Allow me to tell you about:

The Drunken Pickup Debacle.

This one goes back probably eighteen years. My eldest (now adult child encase you're wondering) was maybe five at the time, and I went to collect her from a playdate at her friend’s house.

The mum, very kind and very social, invited me in for a 'drink'.

Now, in my head, that meant coffee.

In her head, that meant gin.

She poured me a large G&T – you know, the sort that comes in a fancy glass roughly the size of your head. And since I didn’t want to be rude (despite not being much of a drinker... which looking back is probably a catalyst to the situation), I drank it.

Then she poured another.

And another.

And by the third, I was holding polite conversation while trying to remember how faces worked.

Eventually, I stood up to leave. I stepped outside, felt the breeze hit me, and realised: Oh. I am drunk.

Like, not tipsy.

Not merry.

Full-blown the path is moving like a fairground ride drunk.

I couldn’t walk straight. I couldn’t even figure out how to make my feet work in sync. So I did what any responsible adult would do – I phoned a friend and said, “Please come and walk me home, the pavement’s trying to kill me.”

There I was, giggling uncontrollably, clutching a bag of uneaten crisps for balance, while my five-year-old looked at me like I’d just failed adulthood entirely. And honestly? She wasn’t wrong!

Thankfully, my friend turned up shortly after, guided me and my child home, and let me sleep it off on the sofa. And one, two, three. That's your lot (for today at least!)

Looking back, these embarrassing stories all have one thing in common: me, overthinking everything and underperforming at basic life.

But I like to think awkward moments like these are proof we’re participating, that we’re in it, not sitting safely on the sidelines. Sure, it’s mortifying at the time, but later (after a good cry or a gin-free nap) they become the stories people actually remember us for.

Besides, laughter is just embarrassment that’s been given time to age properly.

So here’s to the awkward ones – the “Oh aye” crowd, the parents pretending not to know their child in the bra aisle, the accidental gin enthusiasts just trying to survive adulthood with a scrap of dignity intact, and many, many more.

We might not be smooth, but we’re definitely real.

And if I’ve learnt anything, it’s that the best stories usually come from the moments you’d rather forget.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to avoid eye contact with my neighbour until at least 2030.

P.S. If these embarrassing stories made you laugh inappropriately and you resonated with the "Please world swallow me up now!" level of embarrassment, my book Raising an Emotionally Charged Ostrich is packed with the same emotionally tug. Grab a copy on Amazon, or if you'd prefer a signed edition, just drop me a message.

P.P.S. Those bottles in the photo are for an art project! I found them listed on a free group. And when we went to collect them and explain that they were for my teen daughter to make Harry Potter potion bottles? Yeah, her face was a picture!

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 “If you’re never embarrassed, you’re not taking enough chances.”

Neil Simon