But, please God, tell me it happens to a least a very occasional few; even the tiniest, most minute, mentally scarred, esteem bereft, negligible fraction of the world population - so I know it isn't just me.
Last night. 03:28.
Woke needing the loo.
Rose from the bedcovers, made three steps across the carpet, before the sole of my foot met with the up-turned head of the hairdryer plug, which I had discarded, rather stupidly, on the bedroom floor the evening before. This set into motion a series of events which can only be described as catastrophically unfortunate.
Reeling in agony from the deep impression left by this three pronged assault, in my unashamed eagerness to un-embed it from my foot, I careered head first into the bedroom wall, leaving a head shaped divet of concussion in the plaster.
Dizzied by the collision, I lurched backwards, searching for a surface on which to steady myself, and grasped out at my own bedside table, upon which balanced, as precariously as always, a glass of water to quench any emerging night-time thirst. Inevitably, this glass not only spilled all over our electrical alarm clock, but it also smashed and scattered across the carpet in the darkness. Magic.
Daring not switch on the bedside lamp, which itself was bobbing about in what seemed a preposterous amount of water from such a tiny glass, I had to next venture, blindly, across the shard laden floor in pursuit of illumination, medical aid and in the vain hope I was about to wake up. I did not. But Betty did.
Post haste, I dragged my naked, beaten, wide eyed body across the landing, apologising to my woken daughter for disturbing her slumber. At staggering into her room, I noted blood smeared up my arm, coming from an undisclosed location. Still shushing and apologising, I anxiously attempted to track down the wound, panicking with each step that I may be leaving smears of horror about the carpet.
Arriving cot side, Betty began to cry - my dishevelled appearance obviously not to her taste, and I once again apologised, and attempted to settle her back to sleep without actually touching her, for fear of sullying her or her bedding, with the blood that was secretly escaping from my body.
In such a high spirited, carnival atmosphere, The Poop was, understandably, wholly disinterested in returning to sleep, eager to witness any further encore to the unscheduled programme of slapstick comedy embarked upon by her wayward mother.
Safe to say, the clean up took some time. I had to shower, big lights had to be switched on in order to wash stains out of the carpet, our radio alarm clock had to be disposed of, Dave had to remove the glass from my knee and the plasterer is coming to repair the wall on Tuesday. The hairdryer is now safety back in the drawer.
It is just me, isn't it?