I nearly died a few days ago.
That in itself isn’t completely out of the ordinary. Given that I’ve been known to strap oxygen bottles on my back and hang out deep underwater, hike remote areas of the country alone, climb rock faces, date borderline psychopathic men and eat service station pies, I probably get uncomfortably close to God more often than I even realise.
This time was different. A moronic driver. The road rushing up to greet me. Pain. Agonising aeons of being pushed and probed by doctors. I finally shambled home, unable to even climb the stairs or take a bath by myself.
Just a few hours prior, I’d received a stern telling-off from an old friend who rather enjoys reading my mad musings. “I know I should be blogging or something,” I told her. “But … meh. Life and shit. Busy. Things to see, people to do.”
And now here I am, unable to do much of anything at all that involves moving, and completely out of excuses.