The red bus and the black taxi

Technically I'm meant to be in Spain now, but instead I write from my mother's beautiful spotty arm chair in the family room of my parents' house in Johannesburg, good old sunny South Africa.

The comedy of errors that got me here

So, here's what happened, a certain silly me went to the wrong terminal at Heathrow (approximately 3 weeks ago), and believe it or not, at 5am there are no trains operating between the precious terminals at that time of the morning. So, I hopped in a black taxi (by that I mean... I woke up the taxi driver who was sleeping on the back seat - not ideal) and asked him to take me to the right terminal so I didn't miss my ridiculously early flight to Frankfurt.

The genius of a taxi driver took a gap that was too small and wam bam (literally)... a bus, a red London bus for the purpose of this story, rammed into the side where I was sitting. The second genius of the morning was me, because I was not wearing a seatbelt and so I got flung across the back of the taxi. Again, not ideal.

Adrenalin rush! Going to miss my plane! So... despite the fact that I had 4 cracked ribs, I convinced the paramedics I was fine and asked the policemen to give me a lift to the terminal.

So my afternoon to explore Frankfurt was spent in a hospital being x-rayed and playing charades to explain which parts of me were sore. Fun fun!

After a hectic week at the Grameen Creative Lab in Wiesbaden, stories for another day, my dear parents decided it was a good idea for me to fly home for a little rib-recovery, so here I am.

3 weeks down, 3 to go. It's meant to take 6 weeks to get these silly ribs better!