My wonderful car just broke down on a single lane street in the city. Being the strong independent woman I am, I get out and push. One hand on the open door, one hand steering my dark blue beauty into a loading zone. Two British backpackers run over to help, pushing me hastily into the space. I brake, too harshly (it turns out) as one of the unsuspecting British boys slams violently into my car. The sheer force rolling him up the boot and onto the roof. They run away before I can offer a thank you or a peanut M&M, which are now scattered across the floor of my car. I put in the all too familiar call to my very patient Mother and update her on the current chaotic situation I now find myself in that she will ultimately end up paying for. I call the RACV, pay for the outdated membership and a new battery (I always carry her ATM card for such emergencies) and await the triumphant, swirling, yellow lights of my Roadside Assistance Angel. Now here I am... Stranded and vulnerable. Like blood without a vessel. Like Mork without Mindy. Like a sick Robert Smith without a Cure. Reflecting. Alone. Hungry.... Even more hungry knowing that I have all the ingredients of a delicious toasted ham and cheese sandwich waiting for me at home. Just out of my reach. And its good cheese, like the kind you used to get in your Vegemite sandwiches at school. I see a flicker in the rear view of my angel... My celestial pivot awaits. X
Posted on: Wed, 22 Oct 2014 13:15:04 +0000
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