Mourning from the morning

I hadn't realised last night that my wet shorts had soaked through the towel I was sitting on and had made the driver's seat wetter than a mermaid's bathtub. So I started my day today by climbing into the Rorymobile, resplendently presented in a nice suit, only to end up with a wet patch on my arse and thighs. So, back into the house I went, to change into a new pair of trousers, and to help myself to a bin bag to sit on to prevent a repeat occurrence. Philippa laughed like a tickled hyena. 

Psychologically, it affected me all day. I was slightly pissed off, slightly off my game, and slightly embarrassed. If it had happened at night and I had gone straight to bed, I'm sure I would have woken up without any after-effects at all. I'm equally sure that, if I was in the right frame of mind to start with, and if I had laughed at my own misfortune, as my wife did, then my day would have gone swimmingly and in a light-hearted fashion. But because I allowed it to tip me into Glumness, it's been hovering over me since like a dense fog. 
I'm sure there's a lesson to be learnt here, but I don't know if I'm humble enough to learn it.

RC 15-7-22