A little bit of autobiography. It was a strange moment as I thought cars only slipped their handbrakes and rolled out-of-control downhill in vintage comedies...
The St. David’s kerbside incident
I turn at the sound of a crash –
a hatchback has slipped the leash
of its handbrake,
allowed gravity carte blanche
and mounted the pavement,
tumbling somebody’s granny
into a shop doorway
sprawled among a scattering of holiday tat
and ‘Welcome to Wales’ postcards.
Passers-by have gathered round
and begin helping her to her feet –
hurriedly I intervene
to check for concussion,
imagining hip fractures
worsened by well-meaning help.
Though bleeding from superficial wounds,
she is more worried about her lost shoe,
torn tights,
undignified re-arrangement.
As I hold up the requisite number of fingers
and ask quiet questions,
a voice from the small crowd
blocked off from proceedings
by my turned back
proclaims tersely –
‘we know her’.
Although I’m sure that later,
they will provide more comfort
than I,
as a stranger,
could ever hope to achieve,
I’m equally certain that familiarity
does not breed
medical expertise.
As the ambulance arrives,
disgorging paramedics and a stretcher,
I slope off
to rejoin my holiday.
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