Ah, holidays. One minute you’re anticipating a week of sun and relaxation on the Dalmatian coast, the next a friend is screaming in agony after slipping on some wet steps and badly breaking her leg. Melanie has form, but twelve hours into the holiday is a new record.
For future reference, the Croatian for 999 is 94. Not that we knew that at the time. We soon learned that most of Split, the closest city, is a grimly post-communist forest of tower blocks with a cheap and efficient – and grey and understaffed – A&E. Happily they did a great job of straightening up Melanie’s zombie foot in a flight-ready cast, then turfed her out into our waiting people carrier for a hellish journey back to our villa in a Croatian monsoon.
Chris spent the rest of the evening speaking to insurance droids on hideously expensive phone calls. He thanked one American lady for her help, who replied, “Just doing my job, sir.” With a straight face Chris answered, “All the heroes say that.” Thankfully he hung up a few seconds later so that we could all burst out laughing.
Chris and Melanie flew home the following day. The rest of the holiday was significantly less eventful.
We had rain, and lots of it; we recreated scenes from Doctor Who; we ate identikit cheap food, in the main; we visited a national park and its stunning waterfall; we saw Roman ruins; and so on.
(Melanie, incidentally, had a couple of pins and a plate inserted in Addenbrookes and is now home, being attended to by nurse Chris.)