Whiplash

I never made it to the folk concert. I was turning left on a green light in the rain and dark when I saw a woman crossing the street. I jammed on my brakes but the fellow behind me smashed into Scarlet. As I got his insurance and phone number, I noticed that he didn’t even apologize. His girlfriend did, however.

I’m in the Emergency Department of Victoria Hospital in London, staring at the ceiling. I’ve been decked out with an attractive neck collar. A bright red board lies under my bod, a designer model I believe. I’m glad the staff are being careful with me.

On my way to and from X-ray, I watched blue-clad me pass under these clear globes at intersections. I’ve never seen myself from that view before.

The doctor just came visiting. He says I don’t need the neck collar. Yay! Physio and plenty of soreness will be in my future. I can live with that.

In the further expression of thoroughness, they’re about to do a CT Scan on me. Okay … bring it on.

Bottom line, folks … I’m fine. Worry not.

My phone is dying. Long live my phone.