Drop a brick

It was on one of those Tuesdays that I dropped a brick, the memory of which still haunts me after more than forty years. A very loquacious lady, whom I had never seen before, appeared to be talking through her nose. “Don't you think,” I said to one of my neighbours, by way of starting conversation, “that lady would be well advised to sound her trumpet less often?” “You bet I do! I've not been able to get used to it these thirty years.” And as I stared at him, horror-struck: “Yes. I'm her husband.”

I remember dropping a brick when I first met her. As she at once started calling me 'Harry' in the way Americans are apt to do, the surname becoming immediately superfluous. I ventured to ask her what her Christian name was. ‘I'm not a Christian, Harry.’

The clumsy builder dropped a brick on his toe.