Theesh

Time to go to the optometrist. Yes yes I've been saying that for a while now; I was hoping to outlast the fashion for rectangular retro-National-Health post-horn-rims that I just know are going to make me look like a serial killer. But when you inadvertently type 'that' as 'shat' and then don't see it while you're proofreading, the whole necessity thing ramps up a notch.

Some anniversaries are more ambiguous than others

It's 24 years today -- and yes yes, I know what the date is; how apt -- since I rolled and wrecked a brand-new car with my father in the passenger seat at the 110k speed limit just west of Bordertown, on a sinister traffic-eating stretch of the Duke's Highway, notorious for the number of single-vehicle accidents there, and came within millimetres of breaking my neck. Where other people have a smoothly curved cervical spine, I have an S-bend at C4 and C5.

How we both walked away without needing any first aid or going into shock I really do not know, but it's those sorts of times that prompt me to make a sacrifical offering of some kind to the tough-as-nails pioneering ancestors.

Now excuse me while I go and re-heat this wheat bag and take some Nurofen Plus.