Now I’ve been hit by a car [Part Two]

Okay, first thing I have to do en route to the medical centre: text Mum. She works a few buildings away and is generally good in these kinds of situations. I tried to play down the whole getting-hit-by-a-car thing, which is a lot harder than it sounds. I reckon I do pretty well:

Hey Mum, it’s William. I was wondering if you could come down to the medical centre. I kind of got hit by a car. Nothing serious.

Mum obviously takes this to mean: “Holy shitballz, my son is dying”. While she’s in the process of freaking everyone out at her work, I’m beginning to realise that the Blonde is a terrible driver. Like, horrible. You’d think, her hitting me with her car would’ve alerted me to this fact, but no. I had to step inside her car and agree to let her drive me somewhere to realise it.

I should’ve cut my losses and just rolled down the hill to the medical centre, or better yet, taken up one of the witnesses who had cars’ offers to drive me to the medical centre, you know, the people who HADN’T JUST WHACKED ME WITH THEIR CARS.

But I was still in shock, so my judgement was a tad bit off…

Anyway, Mum calls. I look down at my phone.

Blonde: Who zat? Ze police?

I ignore her and answer.

Mum: What happened?

I tell her, in Greek obviously. I don’t want the driver hearing all the horribly colourful things I have to say about her.

Mum: What’s her name? Find out her name.

I clear my throat and opt for English. “Excuse me, sorry, what’s your name?”

Blonde: Olympia.

Shitballz.

I tell Mum.

Mum: What? You couldn’t tell she was Greek?

By this point, Olympia’s driven to Bondi Junction via Bangkok, but a series of no right turns delay our arrival. Mum’s there first. She preps the front desk for the arrival of “her son, who was just motored down by a wreckless driver”. So obviously, it’s a bit anti-climatic when I limp in with a scrape down one calf. I still get to skip the queue, so, win.

There’s a lot of lying down, some ice, some reflex tests, more lying down, more ice, and a thinly-veiled attempt to get out of an essay:

William: I have an essay due on Friday. Can you write me a note?

Doctor: I’m prescribing you to do nothing but sit down for a few days. Will that prohibit you from writing your essay?

William: If I say, “Yes,” would you believe me?

The doctor tells me I’ll need to keep off my leg for a few hours and Mum, fresh from making Olympia feel like absolute shit in the waiting room, comes in to offer to have me crash in her staffroom at work. I give the doctor a look that asks for mercy.

He doesn’t give it, and agrees this’d probably be wise. Mum works at a skin and vein clinic, so, naturally, she has an army of exceptionally qualified doctors checking my blood pressure and performing a whole range of tests. After a few hours of prodding and twisting, they reach the conclusion that I’m not dying.

If Mum’s overreaction, resulting in my sitting in my gym clothes being prodded and poked for the better part of three hours wasn’t embarrassing enough, the staffroom I was being prodded and poked in was also somebody’s office. Somebody I had asked out a few months prior. Somebody who, when I asked her if she’d like to go grab a movie some time, replied with, “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that very much,” and never texted again.

Awkward to the power of a bajillion.

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