The image of the iron flat on the ironing board flooded Cyndi’s brain, and confused her wits. She bounced the heel of her palm off the flat of her forehead, as the shock of the bitumen resounded from her ankles, through her knees to her hips and sent an echoing shudder through her spine. A deafening ‘whoosh’ filled her ears and buffeted her balance.
Cyndi had long a mania for the forgotten everyday action. Was the tap left on? Did she turn the hotplate off? What was that dripping water she could hear? Had the hoses come adrift in the laundry? She flooded her being constantly with inadequacy and apprehension.
Shortening her stride to nip in behind the approaching cyclist, Cyndi did not notice the reversing lights on the Patrol that also awaited the passage of the cyclist. They say you never hear the big one that’s meant for you.