I got hit and runned from

(WARNING- appalling use of the English tenses and pronouns in this article)

It’s nice that, in England, we can cross the road wherever we want. Except when you think it’s fine to cross the road, and then, uh-oh, somehow it isn’t, even when you are 5 meters from your front door.

Traffic stops behind buses. This is normal. Buses are often big. And slow. And they stop. A lot. At specific places, called bus stops. And when you want to cross the road after alighting, off one of these bus contraptions I mean, it is recommended to go behind the bus, as one can assess the situation of the traffic on the side of the road closest. When a car is stationary, behind a bus (because, as I mentioned earlier, buses are big and slow and stop a lot) and it has it’s lights on and everything, a pedestrian can step out tentatively and gingerly poke his/her head round to assess the situation of oncoming traffic.

After these steps have been taken, and especially once it has been confirmed by one’s own eyes that the traffic one is already standing in front of is stationary, one can normally cross safely to the other side, thus allowing the first car to resume its attempts at overtaking a stationary bus.

However, even though your eyes are functioning perfectly well, one must not assume that other people are making full use of their own two eyes. Even if these ‘other people’ are responsible for a vehicle weighing perhaps 1 or 2 tons, a vehicle that if driven over a persons foot is certain to crush said foot, a vehicle that has a body, can you adam and eve it, made of metal. Metal is a material which is typically hard. And a not-hard metal wouldn’t be very useful on a car. Human bodies are, though astonishing and splendorous, rather squishy compared to metal.

So let’s say some people can’t be expected to meet the bare minimum guidelines for, say, driving a car. I don’t drive, but I thought the BIIIIG WINDOW at the front of the car was, like, for looking out of. When it’s dark and a car’s lights are on, a pedestrian can’t look at you but you should, theoretically, see them. And this helps a driver to not accidentally or on-purpose-ly mow a pedestrian down, because

1. Your lights are making them actually MORE visible and

2. You must be able to see right in front of your car because blind people aren’t allowed to drive. Which isn’t even discriminatory because, you know, they can’t actually see.

I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point, whatever that: point: is; There were three little pointy things there but it was none of them so go back and read again if you are still unsure because I wrote, like, loads and if it’s all for nothing you can fuck off.

SO I stood before this stationary pencil-dick for a fair few seconds (I’d say 4) and even poked my head round the bus which I was FUCKING LIT UP AGAINST!!>?!?!? to see if there was a risk of getting mowed down. I assessed, I think, I THINK, quite fairly that I was not going to get mowed down. And then I was howling in pain and rolling off the side of a big metal thing, followed by some confused staring-after of the heavy brum-brum object, and concluded by a profound and sickening feeling of confusion, but actually probably not concluded there because I think I also felt any faith I had in humanity seeping out from every pore as two more cars DROVE THE FUCK PAST.

Enough of this upper-case emphasis! Some old ladies rather unhelpfully enquired loudly from their car if I was okay, as I dragged, nay, clawed myself back behind the bus. I shouted ‘no’ and the disbelief continued. Until some nice blokes (of varying races I might add for any fascists that might have access to this blog- unlikely for many reasons) helped me to the side of the road and called my boyfriend and got me a can of cola and then I felt like maybe there were some moral people left in Manchester.

Some time passed in a&e, and now I’m looking forward to at least 6-8 weeks out of work (yay!) on SSP (yay!) and just two weeks pay from work (yay!)- no matter how long I’m off sick for (big yay!)!!!!11!

Despite this unfortunate, stressful and painful situation, I feel lucky, because I realise that if I had to get hit by a car in my lifetime, a broken ankle is a pretty good deal. I will list here some more reasons for feeling lucky:

  • NHS- Spent just 1 and a half hours at Wythenshawe Hospital a&e which included being seen by a nurse, having an x-ray, being seen by a doctor, and having my cast put on. Whatever anyone says, we’re fucking lucky to have the NHS.
  • I’m not dead
  • I watched ‘girls’ (a HBO series which you should deffo watch if you haven’t already) the night after and the song playing at the end of the episode said ‘Think of all of those that have it worse than you- there is no curse on you’ and I was like GET A GRIP AFRICA.
  • If anybody recognises that song please tell me what it is.
  • Great family- my pensioner grandma waited on me hands and foot.
  • My shoe is fine (although favourite jeans not fine, cut to shit so that they could be manoeuvred around my throbbing cankle)
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I Hart, Africa

That is I- Hart, Africa. Africa Hart. That is who I am and that is the person sat in my bed writing this, to you; if you are sat in your bed reading this, it is me you are listening to.

Or maybe I am reading to myself in my own head and actually, really, nobody (that’s possibly you) is interested. Perhaps it is a¬†self-indulgent self-help shower of shite.

An attempt, by me, to appease I, Africa.

And certainly not you, you.

Probably.