An unfortunate postscript…
Not two minutes after I posted the previous post, the brother I mentioned in it rang me.
Which I thought was odd as I didn’t know he read my blog.
Turns out he doesn’t, so I nattered on about what I’d written until he replied, ‘you may want to hold off on sending those ANZAC biscuits, Nome.’
‘He’s been shot. In the neck. But he’s ok and he’s on his way home.’
Now I don’t know much about anatomy, despite spending most of my life thinking I wanted to be a doctor, (I did try first year science, but I navigated the cadaver about as well as I do maps and failed in spectacular fashion) but it is beyond me how you can get shot in the neck and survive.
Of course, none of this is official information, so I don’t know how he managed to do it.
But I don’t care.
The only official word I need is ‘alive’.
The other official word is moron.
I am a moron.
A too-busy, leave-it-till-later moron who very easily could have learned the horrific way that war doesn’t wait till you’ve ticked off your ‘to-do’ list.
I don’t know where in the world he is right now, and I don’t know when he’ll be back home with us, but you can be damn sure that when he is, Miss Q and I will be right there with a fresh batch of grandma’s ANZAC biscuits.
I have learned my lesson.
I will never delay on such important matters again.
Get home safely friend, we can’t wait to see you.