One weekend we had a small party to welcome our newest housemates. They were two Kiwi architects who came to try their luck in the big smoke. As the evening wore on and the drinks flowed, I was chatting with Genevieve, who asked if I would like to go boxing with her. “Sure!” I likely slurred, then promptly forgot about it.
A little over a year ago I was working out of a beach shack in Goa and hastily decided to dash back to Australia to ride out the emerging pandemic. Sure, I’m a bit of a risk taker, but it just wasn’t practical to risk staying there on the visa I had. I had to leave and come back within a couple of months, but who would take me, and would India let me back in? Some thought I was too hasty and should stay.
“Oh my God, it’s Claire,” she said. She realised some boys had bought me up from falling off something. She had no idea how many hours or even minutes had passed since we had gotten there. She was absolutely terrified and had no idea what to do. Someone had called an ambulance which arrived shortly after. I was alive but unconscious. Was I in a coma? Was I paralysed? Was I going to come out of this? It was all incomprehensible to Felicity.
