Where there's Muck You'll Find Me Covered In It.

You know how some people glide through life looking crisp, composed, and suspiciously free of grime, as if they’ve been lightly airbrushed by a team of celestial interns? 

I am not one of those people. I am the opposite of those people. If there is muck within a five‑mile radius any muck, of any category, texture, or geological classification  it will find me, leap onto me, and cling with the emotional intensity of a toddler who’s just discovered Velcro.

This is not a lifestyle choice. I don’t wake up in the morning thinking, “You know what would really elevate my day? Being coated in something that smells like a compost bin having an existential crisis.” No. I wake up with the modest ambition of staying clean for at least the duration of breakfast. And yet, by the time I’ve buttered a slice of toast, I’ve somehow managed to get a mysterious smear on my elbow. How? Why? From where? These are questions for philosophers, or possibly forensic scientists.

Take gardening. Normal people garden in a serene, Instagrammable way: a tasteful kneeling pad, a jaunty sunhat, a gentle misting of soil on the fingertips. I, meanwhile, step outside to “quickly check the roses,” and within 90 seconds I look like I’ve been dug up by archaeologists. There’s soil in my hair. There’s soil in my socks. There’s soil in places soil has no legal right to be. I once found a worm in my pocket. I don’t even know how that happens unless the worm is actively trying to unionise.

Or DIY. DIY is supposed to be empowering. You fix a shelf, you feel like a hero. But when I attempt DIY, the shelf ends up at a jaunty angle, the wall looks like it’s been attacked by a medieval siege weapon, and I’m covered in a fine layer of plaster dust that makes me resemble a Victorian ghost who died tragically while assembling flat‑pack furniture.

Even household chores betray me. I can be wiping a perfectly clean surface  a surface so clean you could perform minor surgery on it and somehow, through a process known only to the universe and possibly mischievous household spirits, I will end up with a streak of something unidentifiable across my forehead. I don’t even touch my forehead. I don’t go near my forehead. And yet there it is, like a signature from the God of Filth saying, “Nice try, champ.”

And don’t get me started on pets. Pets are adorable, loyal, life‑enhancing companions. They are also biological muck‑dispensing devices. If you own a dog, you already know that the moment you put on clean clothes, the dog will immediately decide to shake off an entire ecosystem of mud, pond water, and whatever eldritch goo it found behind the shed. Cats are no better. Cats pretend to be elegant, but they will absolutely sneeze directly into your soul.

The point is: I have accepted my fate. Some people are destined for greatness. Some are destined for wealth. Some are destined to run marathons, climb mountains, or achieve spiritual enlightenment. I, apparently, am destined to be a magnet for substances that require industrial‑strength detergent.

And you know what? Fine. Let the muck come. Let it fling itself at me like an overenthusiastic festival‑goer. Because at least it means I’m doing things. Living life. Getting stuck in. Making a mess, sure — but also making memories, and occasionally making the neighbours question my decision‑making.

So yes: where there’s muck, you’ll find me covered in it. Not because I want to be. Not because I enjoy being mistaken for a walking compost heap. But because life is messy, and I seem to be on particularly intimate terms with the mess.

And honestly? It’s not the worst way to live. Just don’t sit too close to me on the sofa.