On Getting Hit By A Motorbike; and Why That Isn't an Advisable Thing to Do

In a round-up of the most exciting things to happen to me over the last week, getting hit by a motorbike probably comes top. It views closely with receiving in the post an entirely unsolicited copy of the New Scientist's 'Does Anything Eat Wasps?' book, with no note in the handwritten envelope. It was postmarked 'Croydon' (I don't know anyone in Croydon). Getting hit by the motorbike is, however, probably more noteworthy and interesting than receiving a mysterious book. Both these things, were you a more suspensful and less cyncial and sarcastic writer than I, would make good starts to spooky-ooky ghost stories.

Anyway, I got hit by a motorbike last week. Fortunately, for me at least, not seriously. I've been left with a couple of cut up knees and a dodgy limp. It was on Seven Sisters Rd, the lights were red, I was crossing a few cars down from the crossing itself, failed to see the motorbike filtering down the middle of the road, and got hit. There was quite an interesting moment where time stretched out and everything went veeeerrrryyyyy sloooooowwwww, and I think i said 'fuck', which wouldn't quite have been the best last words. I must be more prepared. Anyway, once time had caught up with itself, I was on the floor, quite shaken, checking what was wrong with me. I'd got up, and then a tramp came and gave me a hug. This wasn't entirely appreciated, and added considerably to the unreality of the situation. Some kind Samaritan came and removed the tramp, and checked that I was ok. My main emotion at this time was embarassment, and as everything appeared to be in place, I limped slowly back home to check my bits. Fortunately, photos don't exist of the wound on my knee, but suffice to say: 'ugh'. On the phone to NHS direct, the nurse, trying to see how deep it was, asked if I could see white bits that looked like worms. Maybe? Ugh, my insides are disgusting.

I was eventually badgered by my long-suffering other half to go to the Walk-In Clinic at the Homerton, missing none of the irony that my walking wasn't my strong point. However, the surly receptionist said it was shut, which meant I had to go to A&E. I hate A&E. It's all people with pint glasses embedded in their heads and kids with their eyes superglued shut and waiting for ever and oh-god-the-boredom-amid-the-agony. My beligerent side was disappointed not to have to wait very long, and then I was whisked off, told to get into a gown (the sort of backless/bottomless number that I leant a certain effortless sexiness to, even under the less than ideal circumstances of bleeding everywhere), while a succession of good-natured doctors and nurses took turns to go 'ugh' at my knee, embark on a lengthy discussion about whether the inside of my knee should be quite that colour, jab me with a tetanus shot when I wasn't looking, and then when finished cleaning and poking me, let me hobble off to get a taxi.

The taxi driver, however, was rubbish. Good-naturedly rubbish, but rubbish all the same. He kept asking us for directions, which given that Homerton Hospital is hidden away in the most confusing part of Hackney possible, didn't inspire confidence in getting home ok. Fortunately we did, and the driver tried to haggle himself out of a fare, while we haggled him up.

Anyhow, the moral of this story is: don't get hit by motorbikes.

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Hope you all have nice Christmasses or whatever, and hope you have a humbuggery-free time.