I'm so relieved to have the girls back at home. I put a lot of emphasis on this occasion. At home alone, I felt isolated and vulnerable, but with their arrival I felt as if the cavalry had arrived. I would survive after all. I knew I could count on my family to support my recovery. I looked forward to their interest in my physical therapy and the gruesome massages of my surgical scar that only a dedicated spouse can administer. Immediately after the accident I imagined my injury as something merely physical. Something I would heal from quickly and in the nature of a fit, young man. A flesh wound. I'd be back in action as soon as they put in a staple or two.
But no. My hand shakes. I still can't take a full breath. I still can't sleep. And the arrival of the girls hasn't changed any of that.
Before Alex began her drive home from Britain, "Did you test the car's air conditioning? How can you be sure it's working? Did you know the tires were crap? And why has is got only one set of keys? Jeff says it's in far worse shape than our old car. Did you know there is no owner's manual or service history? And where is the MOT certificate?"All this would have been OK considering we'd just lost £6k on a used car internet scam and we were buying near the bottom of the market. But now we were face-to-face with the prospect of Alex driving it across Europe with me vaguely commenting from the comfort of my hospital bed. free food, fresh sheets and all.
In an endless traffic jam on the 40 degree circular freeway around Milano, they warmed, wilted and baked. My stock began to plummet. In another traffic jam around Firenze, my stock fell again. They arrived wiped out, well after dark, tired and hungry. I had managed to get the house reasonably clean and clear for all their stuff, but this went largely unnoticed against the backdrop of a landscape largely abandoned for the month of June. My stock? A firesale.
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