Brian got knocked off his motorbike last night. He’s better than he might have been. But that was a bit of a shock to the system, getting the news just before bed last night. I went to sleep not knowing whether or not his leg was broken. He was getting seen to by the lovely NHS and was okay enough to let me know he was hurt. I woke up relieved to the news that it was just badly squished – (just?), but I’m still feeling pretty worried for him. He almost cut his thumb off fixing some pipes at Carol. He literally almost stubbed it with a Stanley knife. That crazy thumb was just starting to behave like normal people’s thumbs might, plus a bit of pain, and then some idiot doesn’t check their blind spot and Brian’s on crutches and making out like he’s not in agony when he is. I need to feed him a lot of protein and red meat in order to rebuild that body. I wish there wasn’t an internal flight of stairs in my flat as he’ll have to get up and down them daily.
He’s in Croydon at Mel’s right now and I haven’t been able to hang out with him and laugh at his bruises because of dayjobbing. I was offered a week of day-job and after the boiler I need to make sure that some short-term money is coming in. So I worked the week, and kept trying to sort out the life-stuff around it, and have found myself at the end of it sitting in front of my terminal listening to the bath running in the background and wishing there was a way to sleep and write simultaneously. There probably is an app. But I don’t know it and I’m too fucked to look. I’m done for the week. Totally shattered.
Thank God Brian only fucked his leg. If you ride a motorbike you take your life into your own hands. I know this better than many considering most of my childhood was spent in a house that was on the TT course in The Isle of Man. Every year there would be multiple fatalities, spoken about almost as if they were just par for the course. Some of them were on Quarterbridge Road right outside my home. The first time I went on dad’s bike he was doing donuts in the back garden with 10 year old Al pillion and the bike slipped. I jumped clear being young and swift and surrounded by grass. Dad went down on his leg. Mum was angrier than I had ever seen her and dad was reflexively trying to pretend he wasn’t in pain but was in plenty. I never went on the back of dad’s bike again. But these memories and this early lesson that bikes are heavy and hot – it’s never going to deter my interest from the monstrous noisy lovely fuckers. If anything it’ll do the opposite. I love to poke a hornet’s nest. I just haven’t the spare cash for the bike I’d like.
If money was no object I’d have blown myself up by now somehow. I’d have been smiling all the way but I’d have got into a wingsuit and flown into a tree, or shot myself out of a cannon into the ocean or something. I still might manage it. I just need to get rich. I might prefer exploding into a tree in a laughing winged fireball than dripping my weeks into a day-job so I can have hot baths until I wake up and realise one day that my hips need replacing.
Brian’s accident has helped me remember that even the little journeys can be touch and go. I might as well put on the wingsuit if I know the route. Fuck I’d love to fly a wingsuit. But right now I’m totally battered. Put me in one right now and I’d be as agile as a coconut.
Still I had a lovely evening. A great friend came over and we helped fix each other’s heads. I feel looked after, loved and happy. Then my nephew got home. He’s off tomorrow. “It’s been great,” he said. “You’ve taught me that you can live well and happily without getting hung up on the little stuff.”