Happy birthday Jon

I reversed into a concrete pillar but seemed to do damage to neither it nor the van; lost in the stand-off with the driver of a big red bendy bus who had run a red light at Norton Street then wouldn't budge from a parking spot I wanted to reverse into; had my driver's side thumped by a P-plater who lost patience with our stand-off at which point I got out the way because my morning was not going well.

Sweat drenched my shirt because I've not been drinking enough, which sends my paralysed system into a mildly stressed response.  I had difficulty transferring out of my driver's seat onto my wheelchair.  I could have wept but that would have changed nothing.

But I found the book I wanted as a birthday gift for Jon Simpson, 60 today.  And a card.  And a pleasant, enthusiastic young woman gift wrapped the book with red paper bound with purple ribbon (which seemed to please her).  And Spike found some decent enough wine in a nearby bottle-shop.  So the morning got better, even if my transfer back to my driver's seat was beyond my currently reduced capabilities.  (I'll worry about THAT another time.)

By the time we reached the wharf at Leichhardt to meet the water taxi I remained sceptical about that whole notion but I was thawing out enough to go with the flow. Its cheery, light-spirited pilot / driver / whatever helped hugely.  He seemed happy to be alive, pleased to offer help, joyful at the weather and enthusuiastic about ferrying me and Spike across the water to Rodd Island.  Martine Hero's brother-in-law, Bruce, and her sons Daniel and Alec were willing helpers, bumping me down a couple of steps then on to the prow of our little yellow and white ship.  By the time Spike helped me off at the Rodd Island wharf, almost perfectly level with the raised deck I was sitting on thanks to fortuitous tides, our two-minute trip on the mill pond that was Iron Cove, through the gentle breeze from the boat's passage, had blown away the bad start to my day.

We had a lovely, lazy afteronon.  Jon and Rosie were clearly happy.  Rosie's choir sang three songs.  I made an impromptu speech at Rosie's request and to Jon's pleasure.  I saw Doug and Martine and some of the Brisbane crew I've not seen for two years; met again some pleasant folk I'd not seen since Jon's fiftieth and was introduced to others I'd not met before.  There was too much food, armies of ants, sparkling wine and a giant chocolate cake.  It was a good birthday for my friend of 35 years and the irritations of my frustrating morning are and were irrelevant to that simple truth.
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