Still got six lives left

17.20
Should have left twenty minutes ago when Rochelle emailed me but continued to faff around the house. Cards..check. Keys...check. Oyster travel card...check. Mobile phone...check. Quick wee...check.

Say bye to Dais and scoot out of the door. Run down to the bus stop to find there are no 55’s running. WANK! Ok, I’ll head straight to Dalston and meet her there instead. Exhibition doesn’t start till half seven so there’s plenty of time for food beforehand. Run to the bus stop on the other side of the road. 236 approaching...via Dalston. Yesssss. Bus doors open, better check with bus driver first.

‘You need the other side mate. I’m only going to Hackney Wick.’

Shit. Shit. Shit. What a tit! Ok need to cross the road. Rochelle is ringing me!

‘Hey, yeah no 55’s...Shall we just meet in Dalston instead?...ok cool...yeah...I know I should of left earlier blah blah blaaah....Roch, I’m such an idiot, I just tried to get on the bus heading in the wrong direction ha ha haaa...I know...’

Step out in the road looking in the wrong direction. Then...
1) Wheel runs over my left foot and left knee hits cold metal.
2) Loud WHACK as side mirror hits my side and sends my mobile flying
3) Body twists and nearly knocks me off my feet

Split second passes and I realise what’s happened. I’m ok. I’m alright.

Taxi driver glares at me through his window and points at my mobile phone still flipped open on his windscreen. I hasten to retrieve it, conscious that my body isn’t hurting and I can still move my toes. I start to walk away when I hear a voice shouting after me.

‘Oi, you can’t just walk off!’

Dazed, I turn and realise it’s the rather irate taxi driver.

‘I know...I’m sorry...I didn’t mea...’

‘You’re an idiot mate. You can’t just damage my taxi then walk off.’

‘I know. I should of..’

‘Who’s gonna pay for this?’

He points to his side mirror pushed in from its regular position, the mirror loose. I walk towards him whilst he continues to voice his disgust.

‘Well, you just have to push it back in.’

The mirror pushes back in easily and slides back to its correct angle to the car.

A few seconds pass and the driver, unable to retaliate to the resolution I’ve just given him, continues to shout abuse at me. I attempt further apologies, as I know it’s my fault.

What a twat. Me I mean, for being so bloody stupid and not the man giving himself a hernia in front of me.

‘Look I’ve apologised sir...if you would just listen to me for a second...you ran over my foot sir!’

It’s not until much later when Rochelle recounts the incident (my phone still connected even after a tumble in the air and a brief joy ride on a taxi windscreen), that I realise that my argument sounded like I was a 1920’s duke defending his honour.

‘That was the politest arguing I’ve ever heard anybody argue ever’, laughs Rochelle.

Anyway, the taxi driver can only hear his own voice and jumps back into the car. This point I’m getting a little angry so I decide to voice my frustration.

‘You haven’t even asked if my foot is okay you....you...knob.’

Pathetic. I skulk away suddenly conscious of the attention I’ve attracted from the bus stop. Thankfully my pride is conserved a little by the man monitoring the buses.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine thankfully. I could have been killed. It was my fault I know.’

‘Don’t tell him that,’ he exclaims clutching his clipboard. ‘He wasn’t looking either.’

I feel a little relieved and sit down on the raised flower bed outside Hackney Town Hall, checking my foot and body haven’t been damaged under the mask of adrenaline pumping through my veins.

I’m good.If this were a cartoon, this would be the point where He-Man and Teela would appear and give the moral of the day. But as such it isn’t, so I’ll just say...’Buggery bollocks. That was close.’