Emma broke her ankle at Glastonbury, so – being the dutiful friend – I went round to make her dinner, then push her wheelchair up to the Knott to meet Tracy and Andy. The evening went really well, until the very end, when she decided that she didn’t want to bump out of the pub and down the step in the chair, and that she’d stand out of the chair, pivot on one foot, hop out of the door and then get back into the chair. After three pints of cider. Bad idea. She slipped and landed on it. Owww!
Her tears turned into whimpers as I pushed her home, and she started to get really upset.
“They were all laughing at me. Nobody knows how hard it is to be in this chair.”
That wasn’t how I saw things, but I bit my lip. She went on.
“It’s not funny. I bet they wouldn’t find it so funny if it was them.”
I partly saw her point – having a broken ankle sucks – and partly thought she was making a meal out of it. A three course meal. And as she complained more, my tolerance lessened. Still I bit my lip. Luckily, if you’re pushing a wheelchair, your passenger can’t see your face.
I put her to bed, washed up, and left. All the way home I felt pissed off at her for being such a pain.
Once I got back, I felt pissed off at myself for being so merciless.
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