Like an elephant
"You're thumping like an elephant!"
My dad said this at least once a day as I was growing up. Running across the floorboards from one end of the house to the other - a jumble of elbows and legs as we skidded around corners and raced through the hallway to land, giggling, on the couch - my sister and I probably did sound somewhat similar to that scene from the Lion King when the herd of wildebeests stampeded across the plains of Africa.
As I head down the corridor to the photocopier and back again, I arrive at my office, aware that I've been walking rather heavily. "Thumping like an elephant" runs through my head and the last few steps back to my desk are dainty, like a ballerina, as I apologise to my dad in my head. I plop into my chair, determined to walk less like an elephant next time.
Inevitably however, unlike the elephant who never forgets, I do forget, and I continue thumping, and the cycle continues. With only slightly less giggling.