I forget what number bad things travel in, but I’m guessing we’re close to the limit:

I’m at home this afternoon, playing with Connor, when the phone rings. It’s a reverse charge call– will I accept the charges? I will. It’s Aiden, who has managed to drain all his phone credit on the kind of crap teenagers drain it on. He, Luscious, and Erin have been at the gym for the last hour or so. He says the words you dread: “We’ve been in an accident.”

Sitting in the queue at the traffice lights, waiting for them to change, and a City of Wanneroo truck smashes into the back of the car because the driver (in his own words) “wasn’t paying attention”. The rear of the car is bent up; the window smashed; lights and fenders crushed and crumpled; Lyn and the kids are bruised, in pain, and shaken; and the driver of the truck, the one in charge of several tonnes of fast moving metal and with the attention span of a gnat, doesn’t even say sorry.

They’re home now: the relevant insurance details have been swapped, thanks to the swift arrival on the scene of several C o’ W higher-uppers, and I’m sure the City of Wanneroo will do the necessary business; the kids are flaked out on a couch, watching something light and cartoony; and Lyn’s lying on the bed, full of painkillers (because what she needs on top of all the other pain she has is a car accident…). So that’s us with no car for the foreseeable future, and at least 3 trips to the chiropractor. Thanks for coming.

I mean, honestly: what kind of a fuckwad starts daydreaming as they approach traffic lights?

I know I should be relieved: my wife and kids are relatively unharmed. I know car crashes can bear worse results. But so far this year we’ve had two computers burn out, one car sit inoperable due to a broken starter motor that we’re having to save up to repair, and now this. I just want to put my head under my pillow and cry.