jinxed

This morning was another one of those drive around the northern suburbs going to ad agencies kind of mornings. As I was getting on the N1 north from William Nicol, I couldn't get over into the right lane to make the turn quick enough. Mainly because the snobby people in their Audis and BMWs and SUVs that cost as much as my house would not let me over. So I had to head towards Monte Casino for one more block and make a u-turn and make a left on to the freeway. The traffic was moving so slowly that I thought I could get a quick call to Monica in, but she didn't answer. And good thing too because as I made the left onto the freeway, I noticed what was making traffic move so slow - a team of like 30 police officers were randomly pulling people over to check license, registration, warrant type things. Its called a roadblock and I don't appreciate them at all. I rather prefer to see a cop every ten feet (like in the States) that pull you over if you deserve it, rather than go through the customs and immigration type sensations that come with road blocks.

Having said which, I have never been pulled over at a road block. I don't know if I have the look perfected or if it has been shear luck. Either way, I am terrified of getting pulled over because I'm sure I'll have a hell of a time seeing as how my license was issued in Ohio and I have less than none in the intentions of getting it swapped over department. Needless to say, today's blog was fully formed at that moment - about all of the road blocks that were potential problems in the past and those that have been problems for people I know - that sort of thing. I spent the next couple of hours wondering if I was jinxing myself by blogging about roadblocks that I haven't been stopped at.

In any case, I made it back to the office, with plans to resume my half day twice a week schedule, which will of course be neccesary from next week on as I have classes starting. The plan was to have coffee with my friend and former colleague, Hector, head up to campus to organise stuff for this semester and then have Monica and her kids over for a playdate. I started off on my plan okay and then it happened. (Think chilling piano music from very old and usually very bad old horror movies.) A roadblock you think to yourself? Ahh no - an afternoon block in the form of my shoe slipping on something on the way down the stairs, me grabbing the railing to stop the tumbling movement my body was doing and barely escaping a fully fledged comedy movie style tumble to the bottom of the stairs and knocking a couple of waiters into their serving station at the bottom. If I had been concerned with dignity, I would be in the hospital right now - cause what happened was terribly and horrifyingly the opposite of dignified. As it was, I gathered myself up and walked back up the couple of stairs I had fallen down and tried to regain my footing. Thats when a waiter looked at me from across the room and asked if I was okay. Note that no one came running to my assistance and Hector had gone downstairs a minute or so before me and had missed the whole charade. Basically, I ignored the waiter.

As sort of a natural instinct, I checked my limbs for bruises. Now for those of you who have never been to South Africa, here is an important thing to note. Everywhere, seriously, has got funny carved metal adornments - like staircase bannisters. A hazard in my opinion, which was confirmed in the act of checking out potential bruising points, meaning, I shouldn't have been surprised to see a serious gash in the index finger of my left hand, through which I swore I could see my bones and which was beginning to fill up with blood. Shouldn't have been, but was because that it what shock is. So I carefully made my way down the stairs and to where I found Hector who immeadiately noticed my condition and got off his cell phone. I'm not completely sure if I grunted like a cave man or actually used English words, but he seemed to understand what I was trying to say, which was along the lines of - doctor block over been to before fucking sore fell please take me. Which of course he did.

And while I was waiting for the doctor to attend to me, Hector pretended to be interested in an obscure reference to Stephen King's Firestarter I was trying to make all in the name of keeping me lucid. Doctor cleaned me up, gave me some stitches, got concerned about possible bone fractures, gave me a script, wrote out a note to the radiologist and made a joke about how the first time I went to see her it was because I managed to stab myself nice and good on another funny metal adornment called a security spike. This by the way, I had managed to drive through my wrist as I pulled my hand away to avoid getting shocked by the electric fence we have above the spikes on our driveway gate. Just great. Hector followed me home - which was a huge mission as - thats right you remembered - I have to shift with my left hand and as I have no power steering, sharp turns require two hands. As I got out of the car and said thank you to Hector, I remembered the time that he was sposed to take me to the dentist and as I tried to leave my house to get in his car, the electric gate died and I couldn't get out. Rather than lending me the money to go to the dentist he had to loan me the money to get someone to come over and let me out of my house.

At the end of it all, I have serious bruises on both legs, some minor sctratches on my right hand and one helluva big pain from my left hand, which is stitched, bandaged, in a sling and hurts like I am being tortured when I move it. Which is why this entire blog has been typed, at a snails pace, with one hand. I wish the doctor had been more imaginative when she gave me my prescription and I can definetely say that I am jinxed.