As I shakily stood up and felt a surge of nausea at the site of gravel-blood curdle all over my body, I couldn't have felt much more sorry for myself, and held back tears as I noted that T had just gone to Boracay to kite surf and my parents who had been visiting had also just left.
Of course, the tears came as soon as the cab driver asked me if I was ok. He passed me tissues (taking his eye completely off the road as he pressed the accelerator) and told me everything would be fine, especially as I obviously was already fine given I could afford to live on Caine road. Interesting logic there.
I dragged myself up home, feeling increasingly sorry for myself, and wondering how on earth I was going to pull myself together. All on my own. This was the first time I wished the doorman was there, so I could give him a full tour of my grazes and an opinion on what to do next.
The lift door opened and there she was. Mum. Enormous sunglasses and panama hat on at 9pm, waiting at the door. Her travel agent had gotten the days mixed up for her flight home. So there she stood; comfort, love, hospital (and a little fashion) all in one. It's in moments like these that you wonder if there is, in fact, a Master Plan.
