300. Almost.

It’s been three weeks since 300 opened and I still haven’t watched it. I tried getting seats last Friday but the only ones left would’ve given me a cricked neck. And so I waited till this Friday only to be surprised by a last minute job for a bank, which will remain unnamed, that held me back till 9pm. Still, I wasn’t too cross about that because in advertising, you get shit thrown in your face from time to time. Besides, there was always Saturday. Wrong. Yesterday, as I was driving in what can only be considered a leisurely fashion to my date with the most testosterone filled movie of all time, lo and behold, a motorbike crashes into the side of my car. Had this happened on any other day, I would’ve scrambled right out of my car and begged the rider to please be alive. Yesterday, however, my immediate reaction was “What the fuck is it this time?!” followed by “How can a man ever watch a film if he’s going to have things running into him all the time?” followed by “Good God, I hope he’s alive.”

And he was. A youngster who’d only gotten his licence three months earlier along with his pillion lying on their sides for some reason. Just to be sure, I ran out and asked if he was still alive. He answered in the affirmative and then asked me what I wanted to do about all this. I hadn’t a clue. So we made some phone calls, some relatives came down including my very accusing mother, and we all had a chat. This morning, I wrote my first ever Statement of Events, which my uncle informed me was rubbish. And so I rewrote it, slightly. Tomorrow, I will have to bring the car down to the workshop to have it unbroken. This, in itself, isn’t really daunting except that my mother insists on coming along which means that by the time I get there, my ears will be inside my head. But it doesn’t matter because guess what I’m going to be doing after that. Yes, that’s right.