The road less travelled...

So, it's a glorious Monday morning (what do you mean, you're suspicious already?), the sun is shining (why would you think I'd be leading up to something?), the sky is blue (not very trusting, are you?) and it's going to be a stinking hot day (what do you mean 'that's not it'?). I have my thesis to edit, having written the last of it last week (you still don't think that's it?).

Oh, yes, I'm at our weekend house in Warragul.

(Yes, you're right, that's it.)

I got a call at about 4pm yesterday, when Dad was planning to come home. And I quote:

"I'm in hospital. I've fallen down the bank and broken my ankle."

*headdesk**headdesk**headdesk**headdesk**headdesk*

I sorted my things and jumped on a train, so I was down here by 8.20pm. One of our neighbours picked me up, drove me back to the house and I got Dad's car. Then I went to West Gippsland hospital and there he was. He's apparently broken his fibula in one place (one of the two bones in the lower leg) and also his ankle joint. He's being transferred to Traralgon Hospital today and they will operate this afternoon. I wanted him transferred to Melbourne, but he would have to wait longer for surgery. I suspect he will be in hospital for at least the rest of the week, as they're going to put pins in and they won't get him walking until Wednesday. I presume he will then have rehab. rather than coming home. *sigh* My typical bloody father - why couldn't he just break his leg like normal people?!

Mum would kill him. She seriously would kill him. At least, she would if she hadn't set this whole thing up. I swear, it's all her doing so that he can't go on his long-planned trip to South America and Antarctica in January.

Ironically, it's almost exactly 25 months since I got an almost identical phone call to say that it was Mum in West Gippsland hospital and we began to cancer cycle. It's NOT happening this time. *determined*