The table was set, fish and salad had been prepared, stomachs were rumbling: all was ready for the Good Friday feast and then plans were set into disarray when my aunty phoned to say that my 88-year-old grandfather had stacked it and face-plated the concrete ground. "Blood everywhere ... ambulance ... neck brace and stitches ... hospital" were the keywords when my mother related the message.
The remainder of the day was spent listlessly loping around the house, waiting for updates from the hospital. We didn't dare eat lunch, just in case as soon as we finished, we would get the phone call to say they were on their way home. We managed to hold out until 5pm.
Pa's injuries include a nose broken in several spots, a huge gash on his forehead in the shape of his glasses frame, and two spectacular black eyes. Thankfully, his neck was given the all clear, as was his brain, but they kept him in overnight so they could keep watch on his dicky ticker. To everyone's relief, he is being sent home this afternoon.
Yesterday's incident, combined with the news that the mother of one of my parents' good friends passed away, made for a pretty bloody average Good Friday indeed.
I miss the days when I would sleep in late, get out of the shower just in time for everyone to arrive for lunch, and then proceed to get inappropriately tipsy on champagne and eat altogether too much chocolate.