July 28th 2019

Today I should be talking about my two back-nine birdies or 20-foot match-winning putt, but instead I’m gonna have to talk about my car accident.

I was on my way to Newport to play golf, stationary in the middle lane because they’d closed the outside lane because of an accident up ahead, and the guy in the Beemer (an unimportant but kind of necessary detail) behind ploughed into my rear bumper at an inconsiderate pace. To be fair, any pace would’ve been inconsiderate, but his pace was enough to leave a dent.

I got out of my car — which is a weird feeling when in the middle of the motorway — to assess the damage and give the Beemer dude — Andy, I later discovered — a chance to protest “my foot slipped! my foot slipped!”

Sure, pal. Your left foot slipped to the biting point of the clutch, and then your right foot slipped to slowly release fuel into the engine, at which point your left foot slipped upwards as your right foot slipped downwards causing your car to slip right into my fucking boot.

Sure, you slipped. Get off your fucking phone, Andy. I don’t know for sure that you were on it, to be fair, but, to be fair, you didn’t fucking slip did you.

To be fair, the damage isn’t terrible. He’s fucked his Beemer more than he has my Fiesta. His grill was caved in, and I’ve got a bit of a dent in my boot. It’s harmless enough that I’m really considering not even reporting it to the insurance company. I had a similar accident this time last year, and the amount of stress and hassle it caused me is making me consider whether it’s even worth it this time. I’m not sure I can deal with the ambulance chasers again, and there wasn’t even an ambulance.

I’m going to close this off cyclically with a reminder that I got two birdies on the back nine and sank a thirty foot putt to win the match, so my day wasn’t all bad.

Until tomorrow, yes that putt will get longer with every retelling of the story.


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