This is not the post that I initially intended to put up as my first ever blog post. You see, after a pep talk that allayed my fears of sharing my life of almost accidents with the World Wide Web, I was hell bent on publishing the post that has been sitting on my desktop since Monday night.

On my way back home to begin with that post, while driving towards a four-way stop at a swift 40km/h, I got distracted by a doggy. By the time the handsome hound left my sight, my head had turned a full 90 degrees and when it had turned back to the recommended driving position of looking straight ahead, the front of my car had almost embraced the pretty little Prius ahead of it. Oops.

There's a lesson in that: I shouldn't be allowed to drive. The lesson is definitely not “do not be distracted by dogs while driving”, because that is just impossible. How could anyone drive past a face like this?



This is not the aforementioned doggy. This butterball lives in my house, attempts to eat all of my food and on most occasions answers to Rani.

As much as I would have liked to provide a photo of the dashing doggy, my survival instinct thought otherwise. On a side note, I'd like to share a little piece of inside information: it is perfectly acceptable for an adult to say "doggy", or "piggy" or anything of that sort. I know this for a fact. This vital piece of information presented itself to me at a schoolboy cricket game late last year. A man well into his fifties sat next to my dad on a bench discussing things involving "wide legs", "slips" and "balls" (clearly an "adult" chat), but abruptly left the conversation to look over at the adjacent racing course and exclaim, "Ooh, look at the horsies!" This fact was then genuinely established when I noticed that he was wearing chinos, a collared shirt and crocs - basically the weekend uniform of the bourgeois male adult.