Tric Kearney wonders is there such a thing as accidents.
You may not believe it but myself and the late Princess Diana have a lot in common.
Unfortunately, it’s not her good looks or wealth, nor am I married to a prince, but just like poor Princess Diana, there are three of us in this marriage.
Himself, myself, and his car…and I’m pretty sure I know which of us he loves more. Over the years I’ve learned to cope with coming second, or at least I thought I had, until yesterday, when I heard a discussion on philosophy, during which it was said: “There are no such thing as accidents.”
Nonsense, I thought. Of course there are. But at the back of my mind an unfortunate incident involving his beloved car was recalled. Surely what happened that day had been an accident?
The incident I am speaking of took place on a beautiful day last summer, when his car and I set off on a rare trip alone together. Himself watched us leave, wringing his hands and shouting “drive easy” as I revved her up with a grin.
Not a half a mile later, she and I were happily motoring along, in peak traffic on a very busy road, when the car in front of us swerved, rather dramatically, to avoid an enormous bucket sitting in the middle of the road.
A bucket that wasn’t there long, as I duly drove over it. Lodged beneath the car, it screamed blue murder as it scraped along the ground.
Muttering something that sounded a lot like ‘bucket,’ I pulled over. It took some time for me to exit the car, as traffic streamed past.
Looking underneath, I saw that blasted bucket trapped midway beneath the car. Too far for me to reach.
I felt physically sick at the thought of having to call himself for help.
In that moment, I’d never hated his car more, and in most unladylike fashion, I gave her a kick. Slowly, she began to move. I stood still, hoping I was imagining things. No, she was definitely starting to roll backwards.
Right about then I remembered that this was a swankier car than my own, with a button instead of a handbrake — a button I’d forgotten to push before exiting.
Faced with two choices; death, or telling himself I’d wrecked the car, I quickly chose death.
Racing against the traffic, I chased after the rolling car, which was slowly picking up speed.
In James Bond fashion I opened the driver door, dived in and pressed the handbrake button. I looked around to reassure myself the car had stopped and there on the road ahead sat the bucket, now squashed, but definitely laughing at me.
Shaking, I sat for a time wondering if I’d just go home and weep. But that would mean confession. So I drove on, vowing to bring this story to my grave.
Unfortunately, a glass of wine later that same evening weakened my resolve, and out the story tumbled.
I mustn’t have told it very well, for at no time did himself acknowledge that I was a hero.
“It’s okay, don’t worry, I’m fi…” I almost finished my tale, as he left the room to check on his true love, leaving me to my wine.
As we slowly recovered over the next few weeks from our collective trauma, life returned to normal. I was in no doubt I’d never again be allowed sit behind his beloved’s wheel and, to be honest, I have no desire to.
Yet if it is correct and there are no such thing as accidents, what happened last summer could mean only one thing…that his beloved car hates me so much that she drove over that bucket on purpose.
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