That NPR piece is good. In fact, I have a funeral to go to next week.

I had a stupid accident with the car on Wednesday after pool class at the Y. I was backing into the garage when the door came down (don’t ask me how), smacked the roof of the car, and tore off the satellite antenna, leaving a ragged hole about three centimetres in diameter through which the female connector of a telecom wire waved at me sadly. I patched it with duct tape, the all-Canadian panacea, and ventured into the world of autobody repairs for the first time in years.

On the recommendation of the service manager at the VW dealership, I decided on Festoso Brothers, a three-bay independent operation on the blue-collar side of Stratford. The boss is a tiny, wizened Italian guy of great age who keeps meticulous notes in little coil-bound notebooks, each numbered and paginated. His best guess is about two grand and a week in the shop, and the patient’s details are on page 25 of Book 164. Surgery will begin on Monday, 25 October.

I’m so mad at myself I could just spit.

But I know how it happened. I pushed myself through the trip to Ottawa and the burial as if in a phased operation, moving from one objective to the next. I was still wound up like a dollar watch when I got off the train on Monday night, and the next day I was so tired I could barely eat. I was still half-stunned on Wednesday, but there was no food in the house and I was booked at the Y, so off I went. I’m just glad I didn’t run over some unsuspecting pedestrian or T-bone a farm truck.

It’ll take a while for my bank account to recover from paying both Signor Festoso and the funeral bills. Just as well; I need a time-out, and a No-Spend November will help.