I love the smell of crying teenager in the afternoon…

So we were in an accident on Saturday.

We’d driven out to visit a friend in somewhere near Strubens Valley (I’m bad with directions and areas) and were on our way home (parked at a green robot waiting to turn) when a young lady in an Opel Corsa plowed into the back of my Golf 6. I was not driving and apart from a few pulled muscles everyone came out of it alive.

A friend of mine, Pippa, who runs a different blog and is experiencing a different pregnancy (due to an accident of this very nature) was probably the first thing that came to mind.

As I type this, I realise, no. That’s untrue. The first thing that came to mind was Hudson, there’s no doubt about that. My mouth was ranting about the bakkie in front of us who, if he’d moved in time, could’ve negated the potential for an accident full stop on his own. But my brain, my hormones, my adrenaline, my heart and yes, both of my hands, were on Hudson.

I was not thinking about the insanely young looking driver who drove into the back of my beautiful, pristine VW who Nick was dead sure I was going to smack around. Nor the equally insane looking drunk hobos who gathered around the accident scene trying to settle the situation by telling anyone who’d listen that “eet will mumble mumble okay, ma’am”. And certainly not the insanely quick-to-the-scene tow truck company who actually ended up saving the day.

It’s amazing how the really important stuff is just that… the really important stuff… when it comes down to it.

But I did think of Pippa and I do now, every day, and I think you might enjoy her journey too. Although it’s not filled with as much vitriole as mine, it’s a journey nonetheless. Good luck, Pips.