There are hours that are testing times, adrenalin, emotion and other words ending in “n” kick in, to help you get through them. Largely they come at once a year, and can hit you for six. Today, between the hour of 5pm and 6pm, my life seemed to come crashing down. One humourous, one not so humourous.
The first the not so humourous. Dad on one of his extra duties of delivering compost to customers, cracked his head open on the boot (trunk to all you yankenites out there) of his car. Luckily, he wasn’t far from the hospital (which not that long ago was due to be shut down, luckily it was saved), so he drove there, got stiched up, and – although he’s not allowed to drive a vehicle – he’s alright now. He does worry me at times as he works far too hard considering he could probably retire now, but that’s the Wynne gene. Luckily, I have a mutated form of the Spence “work hard and play hard” gene, which just makes me bone idle. I must be adopted.
It is worrying however, as I was simply told “Dad’s gone to hospital”. That got me worried and also made me break open the Jack Daniels.
However, no disrespect to my dad, but there is something a lot worse.
I’ve ordered a couple of things in the past week – one of which is train tickets to see the Gorgeous Han next Friday. The other is an item that – for reasons that my mum reads this blog – I can’t say what it is. Both items are in my name, however I got a suprise today when mum finished work….
“There’s a parcel waiting for us in the post office”
Oh shit, I really don’t want to pick it up with my mum there.
“We should go now, both of us, to pick it up.”
As harsh at it may sound, It was almost a relief when Aled rang to say Dad suffered a minor accident. Gave me time to think. Until the dinner table, that is.
“Rhys, I understand that you’re going to watch Colwyn Bay tomorrow, do you want me to pick up this parcel?”
I swear to god I hope it’s the train tickets…..