The Accident: Part Two. Corsa-Boy.

by | Jul 10, 2023 | Uncategorized | 0 comments

This particular example was a white Vauxhall Corsa, driven by one of the boy-racers of the town.

I set off along Norham Road, the long dog-leg that leads from the smart suburb of Monkseaton to Whitley Bay town centre. Passing the tidy pedestrianised terraces of Percy, Warkworth and Alnwick Avenues – built in the early twentieth century by the Duke of Northumberland – I remembered, fondly, the year I spent living on the latter.

I gazed across at number three, home of my good friend Brenda. She had been dealt the tragic prial of MS, Diabetes and Cancer. However, that didn’t stop her living a full independent life. This woman was as tough as they come, having managed some of the roughest pubs in Newcastle’s West End. She would often join me at the pub in the evening where we would insult each other with profanities. much to the consternation of fellow drinkers.

Even though she was wheelchair bound and slurred like a drunken sailor, (her words, not mine), between her ears, she was as bright as a button. Her wit was as sharp as a darning needle, which I experienced on several occasions, accompanied by stares of bemusement by onlookers.

Half way down the road, I heard it first, a deep throaty roar. Familiar to those who frequent St Mary’s lighthouse car park, it was that of a hot-hatch with a modified exhaust. This particular example was a white Vauxhall Corsa, driven by one of the boy-racers of the town. He was travelling at roughly double the twenty-miles-an-hour speed limit.

As if confirming this, I looked between him and the large, white, encircled twenty on the road beside me. Then something else caught my eye. Reversing out of the back-lane of Alnwick Avenue, a black Ford Transit appeared, right into the path of the rapidly approaching Corsa-Boy.

I froze on the spot as the lad took evasive action by steering in my direction. The last thing I recall was the little white car mounting the pavement, striking me around waist height, the boy’s look of terror imprinted on my retina as the lights went out.

I woke up in what looked like a small waiting room with black walls, ceiling and floor, illuminated by a single fluorescent strip-light. In the centre of the room stood a glass-topped coffee table with a few magazines spread on it. This was surrounded by several of those weird IKEA chairs. I was sitting in one of them, POANG I think they’re called. As if to confirm this, I gently rocked back and forth, as I did with the one in the flat.

I was sitting in one of them, POANG I think they’re called.

I noticed that I was wearing one of those hospital gowns with the ridiculous pattern which ties up the back in several places. The edges never quite meet, leaving a three inch wide length of flesh from neck to arse. I remembered wearing one when I contracted meningitis in 2009. You had to go to the toilet in the corridor with your back to the wall to save your blushes. A clever ploy by the NHS to humiliate you, I thought.

I smiled inwardly then noticed that I was pain and injury free. Quite an achievement, following a collision with a Corsa at 40mph. I recalled the statistics said that there was likely to be a ninety-percent chance of death for the pedestrian at that speed.

Was I dead?

Just as, like the little Vauxhall, that thought struck me, the black door in the corner of the room opened.


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