Given the above number; this should really be a tale of some ghastly mishap and subsequent escape from death with nothing more than an extremely inconvenient injury, (…like the time I got hit by the car, went over the roof, and had not a single mark on me… except the the spot where I’d bitten a chunk out the inside of my lip when I landed on my chin {I lived}).
I seems however that the pace of personal peril has slowed somewhat as I advance into my more mature years.
Perhaps it’s wisdom: I put all the circuit breakers off before detactching the ancient alarm switch – I did still get a shock – although not really a surprise – who (but me) would have suspected the alarm would bypass the circuit breakers.
Perhaps it’s prudence: I put my training shoes on, instead of lose fitting croggs, before my many (and continuing) escalades on the Really Tall Steps (I feel these may rise to the giddy heights of “regular guest appearance”), although, as they “walk”, if on any uneven surface, I suspect that story is only postponed.
[They are old and wooden. They creak and bend and flex. If the ground is uneven the act of mounting them can cause one leg to rise and flex “forwards”, then, as your weight shifts, the opposite side does the same. Add in even a very slight slope, and by the time you reach the top, you are about 3 feet beyond your intended goal.]
Perhaps it’s luck: Years of having the toast land butter side down, is (finally!) being evened out by the amazing flukey catch of the slice as it falls. (I should buy a lottery ticket right away!). You’ll forgive me not holding my breath.
My personal thought/fear/preference/suspicion is that it’s none of the above, and Fate is just saving things up for something really special. So we have something to look forward to…
(I was actually going to write about British gas and the South African call centre – sounds like a Sherlock Holmes story- but the final episode of that is tomorrow – I really really hope, and until I get some closure, I suspect any telling would just degenerate into a stream of invective.)
Next week; FIFTY SEVEN! How can I be fifty seven already?
Dalmallyfest the Asylum 