Few, if any, of my acquaintances can hold a candle to me when it comes to clumsiness. I think I may safely say that I have raised the whole concept of clumsiness to an art form. Actually, it’s not so much clumsiness, though I possess that in abundance, as a gift for instant disorder. I sometimes think that I only have to look, for example, at a tidy and well arranged desk for it to start disintegrating before my eyes; or to approach a loaf of bread and to watch aghast as it begins to crumble before I even so much as touch it. This is genius of a sort, surely?
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