History
The time, John Gorton has just cast his own vote against himself to install Silly Billy McMahon as our new PM, I am eighteen years of age, male, driving my first car, a hand me down from dad, it's a 1959 Fiat 1100, 4 cylinder, 4 on the floor with rear hinged front “suicide” doors, underpowered but sharp in steering and throttle response compared to the more popular American derived cars of the time.
Gotta drive, wearing thongs, open the door, seated, car started and slipped into reverse, looking over my shoulder and dropping the clutch to begin reversing down the driveway, all in one sweeping youthful movement, no muckin' about, I got life on a string.
PLOP!, on my crotch, with the cold mass of a raw hamburger patty.
I knew what it was before looking down, a huntsman spider the size of a hand, free falling from behind the sun visor, all hairy and glowering at me with it's 120 eyes and beginning it's arachnid movement from crotch, to T-shirt, to ...to my THROAT !
Without hesitation or thought, and greatly facilitated by the front opening and aptly named suicide door, I bailed out head first like a shot down and on fire fighter pilot.
BUT!, bloody thong gets caught on the clutch pedal retarding my footwork, life is now in slow motion, halfway out I see things from situations never before viewed, the still turning front wheel, the gravel driveway. “Oh ! That must be the park brake cable under the car there, almost out, if only the right foot would” . Ahhhh!!
I see it happen but the physics of the situation makes it inevitable that the front wheel must run over my now lagging right foot, not so much pain, as turning rubbery weight pressing gravel right through my lagging extremity.
Up and over, and I roll away, but. ...
It's not over, the homicidal Fiat motors on. The reversing little stinker from Turin has not stalled and is tracking dead straight down the driveway, with a silly looking face formed by the headlights and stripy chrome between, the open suicide door waving at me in cheeky mockery, “Bye Bye” .
On towards the suburban road with the passing traffic, and across that, if the little s*** is not cleaned up, a driveway leading to the neighbours reverse parked shiny brand new moonbeam grey Ford Falcon, that aggressive smug Anglo grin may well be soon adorned with an Italian hood ornament.
There is no way that this can end well! I have GOT to stop the car!
I spring up and hobble after the low geared run away, now two thirds the way down the drive, I just have to stop it, I am working in a tile factory and can not possibly afford the inevitable damages.
It's beginning the downward slope to the gutter and roadway, with the altered angle the suicide door swings conveniently open and with all of my youthful energy I launch myself headlong though it, shoulder bouncing off the seat back and somehow, like a panicked cat, twisting myself in mid air to stomp with full force on the brake pedal with my good foot.
Skid, .. the engine stalls, and stillness, followed by a whoosh and the sight of a speeding transit van in the rear view mirror. Disaster, on this little suburban road, has been narrowly averted and the rapidly increasing pain in my foot will cost me nothing.
I try to walk normally as I make my way to my room to the voice of my mum
“Oh you haven't gone yet” ?
I collapse in sweet private pain. Life is good. I don't know what happened to the spider.
