I received specific instructions from the Range Master to be early. Not on time, but early. He knew me too well.
I left for the range at the crack of sparrows. I was running late, no breakfast, wet hair. I pulled out of the driveway and drove against the traffic whilst listening to the dulcet tones of Ira Glass.
The registrar asked if I had seen my x-rays, and I shook my head in the negative. Her face dropped and she said, “Ooooh!” rather ominously, then asked us to follow her into a consulting room. I looked at my sister with wide eyes, and whispered to her, “That’s not good. Not good.”
Sometimes life bites you in the arse. Hard. I took a tumble at basketball on Wednesday night and have spent the last 44 hours in hospital. I had surgery this morning to have a plate inserted in my wrist. But I cried when it was apparent I wouldn’t make it to see the Swans in the Preliminary Final tonight. So I have made it home with 90 minutes to spare. My lovely sister is cooking fancy pizza, I’m freshly bathed and morphined up. And we’re going to Cheer Cheer the red and the white from the comfort of the couch.
…to think I, too, could be one of those beautiful California girls the Beach Boys sang about.
The Rebecca Project 