A couple of months ago, I was heading to my car for a day of errands when I noticed the washing out on the line. I knew it was dry but the sky looked ominous and I was sure it would be soaked by the day's expected rain unless I hauled it inside before leaving.
Hurrying, I darted over to where it was hanging and began ripping it off the line, tossing it into the nearby basket, clothes pegs flying as I fumbled to get it done. My mind was already on the road and my body was frantic to get this chore over with so I could catch up with it.
The basket full, I wheeled around and crunched back over the gravel pathway towards the terrace, taking a shortcut that meant a hop over a low wooden garden divider.
It was a dumb move. I was going too fast for the uneven ground, for my inability to see