I'd heard people say before that time seems to slow down during a road accident. Certainly I didn't expect to have so many coherent linear thoughts in the two or three seconds it took to be collected by The Red Mazda.
I'd taken the Herschel Street exit off the Riverside Expressway around 1:15pm. I'd stopped at the red light, and when it turned green, I drove into the intersection with North Quay.
From my left came The Red Mazda. Time slowed; or more likely, my brain sped up.
"That's not supposed to be there."
"That's going to hit me."
"There's nothing I can do to stop it."
There was a crunch of metal and I found myself shunted from a 12 o'clock to 2 o'clock position. Just wanting to get out of the stream of traffic, I putt-putted my poor battered Corolla off to the side of the road and killed the engine.
Then time went back to normal, or maybe my brain just stopped.
"What do I do? What the hell do I do?"
"Call the Wah!"
"No, wait. Call police! Yes, call the police!"
I grabbed my mobile, keyed in 000 and hit the call button.
"Wait!" yelled my brain. "That's only for emergencies! Think of all those stories you do about people wasting Triple Zero's time with non-emergencies. You're not dead, you're not injured, you can't call the police!"
I rang off.
"Wait. He's on a boat, currently off France. He can't help you now."
"Call the Wah!"
"Yes, that's a good idea."
I called. "Somebody hit me, somebody hit me - can you please get my insurance policy number?"
He did, and then told me he would make his way down there. I rang off again. I was still inside the car, in the driver's seat, not really knowing what to do next.
A nice man wearing sunglasse leant through my open passenger side window. "You OK?" he asked.
"It wasn't my fault!" was all I could think of to answer.
"You're right," he said, somewhat cryptically. Did he mean I was "all right", or did he mean I was right about it not being my fault?
He passed a piece of paper with his name and number on it. His last name was Riddle. He said if there was anything I needed, witness-wise, to call him.
I thanked him. Thanked the Riddler.
I realised I had to get out of the car. I opened my door. It jammed still, leaving only a 20cm gap. I flexed and furled my way out, and turned my attention to the front of my poor, undeserving Corolla.
The Wah walked me up the road to the local private hospital, and a couple of hours, an arseless hospital gown and $300 later I left with some Voltaren tablets and instructions to avoid bedrest. Apparently it's not good for whiplash style injuries. I have a sore neck and shoulder, but all in all, am fine. I'm very, very lucky - a few seconds here or there and I could have been truly t-boned, and quite possibly badly injured. My Mum came over to hear the verdict from the very kind Dr Jeff (said his name badge), and so was OK with me saying that I would head up to the Brisbane Arts Theatre for The Tasmanian Babes Fiasco. After all, that's why I'd been out driving - I'd been collecting the dry ice needed for the show, and was on my way to watch the final performance of The Pied Piper when The Red Mazda appeared.
As for my Corolla, my beloved little "Hummer"... I await the news with trepidation.