SO there I was, vacuuming and dusting while watching bits and pieces of the Brit Awards a few weeks ago.

 

Finally, I finished and decided to sit down to relax and watch the remainder of the awards.

After all, the hype throughout the show seemed to be gathering momentum up to the appearance of music legend, Madonna.

And what did she go and do when it was finally her turn to appear on stage?

She fell and landed flat on her toned and taught backside. On live TV.

Yes, she was apparently pulled backwards by one of her dancers who yanked at her long cloak which was tied too tightly around her neck, causing her to fall backwards down three huge steps.

It was a surreal sight to witness.

And I must admit I could only watch the rest of her long awaited performance by peering through the gaps in my fingers as I raised my hands to cover my face, just like I used to do when watching Hammer House of Horror.

And I thought to myself, isn't it strange how you react when you see people trip or fall.

Your first reaction is usually to laugh.

But part of you wants to assist.

And part of you can empathise and feel the victims' humiliation. However, the greatest feeling, selfishly for me, is the sheer relief that I'm not the one making a complete spectacle of myself.

It reminded me of an unforgettable incident a couple of summers ago when I was walking along Sauchiehall Street during my lunch break.

The sun was shining as I happily meandered along, when suddenly, an elderly lady (and that wasn't what I called her at the time), cut out in front of me while trailing her tartan shopping trolley.

My foot must have clipped the wheels, and before I knew it, I spectacularly went flying, landing face down spread-eagled on the ground.

Not with the grace and composure of Madonna I might add. Oh no. I was more like a prize clown from Bobby Roberts Circus.

My fake-designer hand bag splattered on the ground with all sorts of unmentionables scattering everywhere.

My new tights were ripped to shreds, baring knees which were scuffed like a five-year-olds.

And, to top it all, I could tell by the sudden draught that my flimsy dress wasn't covering the bits it was supposed to.

And, unlike Madonna's dancers who didn't appear to move a muscle to assist her, it seemed as though every single shopper in Sauchiehall Street had turned their attention to me.

"Gie the lassie some air," shouted one.

"Are you all right hen?" asked another.

"Is there anyone you want us to phone?"

As I squinted through my skewed sunglasses, which remarkably were still attached to my face, all I could see was that the large crowd, who had been listening to the music of the South American Indian buskers, had suddenly shifted their attention to me.

But amidst the chaos around me, I could still hear the musicians blaring out their unique music.

"Ya ya, hoo ha," they belted out as they continued to shake their maracas. "Yee ha."

I couldn't decide if I was in pain or just totally humiliated.

And, unlike Madonna who merely flicked her dyed blonde hair to one side and lifted herself back into position, I had to be assisted by two elderly men who took an elbow each and dragged me to a nearby bench as my legs seemed to have buckled under me from the shock.

Resting on the bench, the old codgers attempted to prop me up as I swayed from side to side like a North Sea trawler, until eventually, I found the strength and willpower to head back to the sanctity of the office.

So, despite all the gossip surrounding Madonna's fall, I greatly admire her for having the unique ability to continue with her live performance in front of millions, when all I wanted to do was hobble to the nearest toilet and never come out again.

PS: You might like to know that unsurprisingly, I didn't have the bottle to venture anywhere near Sauchiehall Street for quite some time following my humiliation.