Today started like most other Tuesdays—though given the sheer volume of upheaval in our lives this year, I am no longer entirely sure what a ‘typical Tuesday’ even looks like.
It was ‘Scary Bin Day’—the morning the recycling lorry comes roaring down the road, complete with operatives dragging bins down the drive and violently smashing glass bottles into the back of the truck. Moog is utterly terrified of the noise, so in an effort to drown out the racket, we crank the kitchen radio up to full blast.
One of Karen’s favourite tracks was playing as she danced down the hallway armed with her car keys, phone, and lunch. “See you later!” she sang out, closing the front door behind her.
I had mapped out an ambitious plan for the day: tackle a mountain of admin, squeeze in two table tennis practice sessions, and, in a reckless departure from my usual routine, fit in a gym workout before running the after-school table tennis club.
A couple of hours flew by in a blur of emails and an intense first table tennis session on the robot. I was just catching my breath when my phone chimed with a text from Karen: ‘I’ve fallen over and twisted my ankle badly! Uncle Colin is bringing me and the car home.’
After calling her with no answer, I texted back to see how I could help. My mind immediately pivoted into emergency mode, cancelling the rest of my day’s schedule. Karen has a history of severe ankle sprains, and I know just how painful they are for her.
Before I could process that, my phone bleeped again: ‘Guess who arrived bang on time this morning?’ Attached was a picture that left zero doubt. GC4 had officially landed.
At this point, my brain went into complete overdrive. I was elated for Jack and Sarah, deeply sympathetic for Karen, and thoroughly confused about what to do next. Do I cancel after-school club to nurse Karen? Do I pack a bag for a swift dash to Shrivenham to look after Watson and Moose? Who do I call first?
I decided to sit tight. Karen would be home shortly, and Jack and Sarah would reach out if canine reinforcements were required.
Then my phone pinged for a third time.
‘Michael felt nauseous at work and went straight to the medical centre. He’s just been admitted to hospital in Bendigo.’
Splendid. Another family member in hospital—this time four thousand miles away in Australia. My stress levels officially blew past maximum capacity. As I opened a fresh browser tab to check last-minute flight prices to Melbourne, I forced myself to pause, take a breath, and wait to discuss the situation with Karen.
When Colin dropped Karen off, she adamantly insisted I carry on with my original plans. After all, she wasn’t going anywhere except the sofa. The severe pain in her colourful, rapidly swelling ankle was conveniently dulled by the excitement of Jack and Sarah’s news and keeping in constant touch with Erin in Australia for updates on Michael.
Ten minutes on the mighty StairMaster brought my runaway mind back under control—even if it did absolutely nothing to lower my heart rate. Afterwards, forty-five minutes with the energetic young table tennis players was precisely the distraction I needed.
By evening, the dust had finally settled, and the news across the board was positive. GC4 is doing brilliantly, Michael’s surgery in Australia was a success, and Karen is comfortably propped up on the sofa, thoroughly dosed with ibuprofen.
I am still a bit concerned about whoever stepped in to dog-sit Watson and Moose today, mind you. I am expecting a very frantic text any minute now…
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