I am walking alongside a busy North Sydney road. The footpath is equally hectic. So as I approach a pole surrounded by people, I step onto the road – intending to quickly step back off again. Doesn’t happen. I am knocked hard from behind and slam face first into the street. First thought – I’ve just been hit by a bus. Second thought – you really never do know when you’re going to be hit by a bus. This has been a saying of mine for some time. Now it’s a reality. I am dazed but slowly turn over. The frantic driver jumps out of his bus, proclaiming: “You walked right out in front of me!” But I’m more concerned with the fact that there now seems to be a hole in the knee of my favourite jeans. Bummer. There is also a bit of blood around the knee but it’s not too bad. I slowly look up at the driver and answer: “I know. Not your fault.” I am lucky he was pulling into a bus stop and was barely traveling by the time he hit me. A few people who witnessed the scene from the footpath come over to see if I’m alright and help me up. I feel a little sore and very embarrassed. I just want to get the hell out there. “Are you sure you’re ok? Maybe you should go to a hospital just to be sure.” Nope – not going to happen. “No –really – I’m fine.” I look towards the driver. “Sorry mate.” Then I’m gone, being extra cautious as I cross the road. I arrive at my friend’s house – the latest place I’ve been couch surfing during my post Euro excursion gypsy phase. That evening I am actually vacating and finally moving into a place of my own. But before then, I promised to do some cleaning. So in an empty house, still in a state of shock, I clean. I clean like a man possessed. My pent up adrenaline has found an outlet – scrubbing, washing and vacuuming. In no time, the place looks immaculate. My mate arrives just as I’m hauling my bags into the hall. “Hey – place looks great!” “Thanks.” “What else did you get up to today?” “Not much. Oh – that’s right – ripped a hole in my jeans.”