I got a phone call at around six o'clock this morning. Way too early for business calls for antiques, even too early for construction trade calls, unless it's someone saying he's sick and can't come in to work today.More haste, less speed!- Proverb
No, phone calls at 6:00am usually spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e. This one was no exception. Husband was stuck in the truck. Could I come right away? Bring a drum (no, not the kind you beat on) and....
So I had to turn around in a hurry, as I was still in sleep shirt and dressing gown (it's not a good look, trust me) and explained to the dogs no, they couldn't come - except Bandit, who had already beat me outside, and whose coat would shield him from the cold if we got stranded anywhere.
Anyway I rushed about as well as I could, with the result that I launched myself into - or at - the driver's seat of our crummy station wagon just a leetle bit too early....
Thud! Ugh! The sound of the proverbial sickenening blow to the skull as my head hit the car frame. And I mean I really hit it, too. I didn't even say 'ow!' - this was too big for an 'ow!'; it was more like 'AGH!'
I sat down hard, head pounding, thinking, 'I've really got to get going' and 'That's why the American TV cops always push the bad guy's head down as they shove him into the car!' and 'Sit back down, Bandit, I'm fine!' (a lie) all at the same time.
The bottom line was that the truck had run out of diesel; it was at a good spot for it - he pulled off the road easily and was still in the Village if he'd needed help - and thank the Lord it was nothing more serious than that.
I was back at the computer by eight.
Life goes on...and that's life!