|Being a razorblade in the parliamentary candyfloss|
There comes a time in the life of every Grumpy Old Sod when mortality turns up and smacks you in the face. It happened to this GOS last Thursday (11th October). I'd returned from protesting with fellow anti-Brexit campaigners outside Parliament (see pic). I decided to reward myself for my verbal prowess with some cider.
The supermarket, which shall be nameless coz I refuse to do product placement was on the other side of the road from the bus stop. I looked left. No traffic. The road was clear. I looked right ~ there was enough road between me and the oncoming queue of rush-hour cars to launch a bid for the opposite pavement, where the cider lived. I stepped into the road.
I remember the BANG.
Next thing I was lying in the road, with cars screeching to a halt all round me. They say just before you die in an accident, your whole life flashes in front of you. Mine didn't, so I decided I was going to survive. I had a go at levering myself off the road, dimly aware that all around me in the vertical world, people were on their phones, holding urgent conversations.
Which is where the kindness kicked in. A nurse (she'd phoned the ambulance) and a first responder (who'd phoned the police) happened be passing and had stopped to help. Having ascertained that nothing major was broken, I was gently lifted off the road and propped against a wall. The driver of the car that hit me appeared. It was an electric car. I hadn't heard it coming. We both apologised to each other.
A PCSO in a van arrived. I was placed inside to await developments. It was decided not lock me in the small back compartment where the naughty people go. The driver and I continued apologising to each other. While we waited for the 'official' police to arrive to take our statements, I enlightened him about Brexit, a topic he hadn't thought about much, though his dad was against it. He decided he agreed with his dad and me. Result!
The police came, blue-lighting merrily. We both made statements. It was suggested I should go to hospital to have the bump on my head and other bits checked. I declined. Having watched '24 Hours in A&E', I knew how the script played: you are brought in on a stretcher; you lie around for hours waiting to be seen; you lie around some more waiting to be X-rayed; you lie around even longer until they get the results; you are told nothing major has happened and are sent home with painkillers.
I decided to cut out the middle section and go for the 'home with painkillers' bit. The kind PCSO drove me back in his police van. I do not know what the neighbours thought. I am not sure what I think either. Maybe it is a warning not to let Brexit take over my life. Maybe a sign that I am slowly going, to use the technical jargon, completely gaga. But at least I am here. Though sadly, still without any cider.