Limbo

It's going on three am, or thereabouts, in a hotel room in the English midlands.

There is a hairdryer attached to the wall that has been pulled out, its cord stretched across a chairback, and I am attempting to limbo under it, for reasons unspecified. A friend is laughing himself silly from the bed.

As I fall on my behind for the fourth, or it could be the fifth, time - who's counting - it occurs to me that perhaps I don't have a natural talent for this. Or any talent. Come to think of it.

Indeed, I think from the floor.

But I tried, I tell my laughing friend. You can't say I didn't try.