Ominous creaks from my broken car

And a letter to the Bishop who spoke to Trump yesterday

Dear Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde,

The road in front of me was wet, narrow and slippery looking. I yawned and I gripped the steering wheel more tightly.

It was sometime in November in 1997, on a small back road in the middle of nowhere. At the bottom of the world, in the North Island of New Zealand.

I had been driving for four and a half hours. My eyes were heavy. I had just finished the hardest and most grueling semester of my life.

The penultimate year of veterinary school with fourteen 3 hour exams in a 16 day period. I wasn’t just tired, I was exhausted.

A rainswept bend was approaching, as was some fantastical dream about the hottest girl in my veterinary class.

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[ Those of you reading this letter are probably wondering why the hell is this letter addressed to Bishop Budde?

You know the woman who just spoke at Trump’s post inauguration service.

I am writing this letter to her because what I experienced that fateful day in 1997 directly correlates to the message she gave yesterday. ]

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Anyway Bishop Budde,

As my little red car hit that rain swept corner the wheels began to slide and I was jolted awake by the impending screech of a loud horn.

As the wheels slid and bounced across the road, I woke up from my sleepy slumber.

I was heading straight towards a screeching pick-up truck coming right at me.

I ripped the steering wheel sideways.

Too much.

Spinning on the tarmac now. Sliding,. Aquaplaning. Away from the pick up truck at least.

Off the road I went, straight towards a large ditch. I knew that this was bad, very bad…

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