It was 1:30 a.m. last Monday morning – with February only 1½ hours old – when the fire call came. Sweetheart Vivienne blogged here that last Sunday evening the smoke was thick at our place. So it shouldn’t have surprised me when the call came. But I was in such a deep sleep. I awoke with a start, but I was dopey whilst I pulled on my clothes. As I left our bedroom Sweetheart Vivienne implored me to drive carefully. I think I must’ve been in some twilight zone – not fully awake, yet somehow adrenaline-charged at the prospect of fighting a bushfire I knew little about but which I thought was major and close. I hopped up into the Triton’s cab, and reversed out of the carport. Then – crash. Instantly I became fully awake as I realised I’d backed into – and broken – our back porch downpost and a rainwater downpipe attached to it. Oh dear. I was distraught. Mad at myself. How could I have done such a thing? But, strangely, not inconsolable. Like most accidents, this one was multi-causal. And a key cause was that the Triton is much longer than the Peugeot. Anyway I felt in no fit state to be on a fireground, so I didn’t attend that call. (My chance at the fire came late afternoon the same day.) Sweetheart Vivienne was superb, as usual: sympathetic, comforting, loving. I am so very blessed that I’m married to her. P.S. The Triton was undamaged. Not even a scratch.
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