It was two days before my silver wedding anniversary and things were not going well at work. GR accused me of spying on him. I argued back that anyone sensible would put their job application into the post inside an envelope and not leave it lying around for others to read. Later on another colleague unfairly mocked my pronunciation of long words beginning with the letter E. He did have a point, however, when he complained that I’d been dribbling chocolate and left stains all over his white shirt sleeve. Eventually we made up and he invited me as a last minute guest on a special work trip.
We were travelling to Stockton-on-Tees by London double decker bus when the disaster struck. One minute we were on the road and the next I felt like I was flying through space. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t feel any pain. Then I suddenly understood that this was the end. I was dying and there was no way back.
For just a couple of minutes I managed to delay my death. I woke on the floor of the Shambles market hall on Stockton High Street, forced my eyes open, and found two caretakers peering over me. They were discussing “the crash” and my chances of survival given my hideous abdominal injuries.
“Please get me a pen and paper”, I croaked. My scribbled dying words to my husband read: “I am sorry that I have died and we didn’t make it to 25 years. Please marry someone else and make her as happy as you made me.”
