The certainty of three

Stuff always happens in threes. I should have acknowledged that after our taxi to Hanoi’s Old Quarter T-boned a motorcyclist at an intersection.

If I had been on the ball, I would have had misgivings when the taxi arrived to pick us up. The kerb-side bodywork was carrying a few battle scars. No major damage just the odd dent and superficial scrape here and there. Nothing was amiss until we hit the Old Quarter and a traffic jam.

Eventually, we moved off once again and traveled barely two metres before this death wish motorcyclist tried to defy sense and logic and cut across our path. Fortunately for him we were still in first gear, but the impact was enough to knock the mechanised mentalist flat, his bike wedged under our front bumper. After getting him upright again and dusted down, we got back underway with zero fuss or road rage.

The rest of the afternoon passed as planned, lulling me into a false sense of security until dinner time when we defaulted to Bit Tet Ong Loi on Hang Buom for a beef steak and a Truc Bach beer. No hiccups there. And nothing to arouse suspicion until I decided to go for a post-beer pee on the way out.

The toilets are located in a little alcove just off the main passageway. The door to the right is a squatter while the door on the left is a Western toilet with a urinal.

Anyway, I am standing there at the urinal when I hear this splashing noise. I look down and discover that the waste pipe has a leak and I am about to get pee on my sandals from a piss puddle of my own making.

I managed to dodge peeing on myself and go out into the little passageway. I then, of course, decide to have a proper look at my sandals only to bash my head off the low door frame.

Evidently, three is a magic number. And painful…

< Spooky! Just word counted the above and it came in at 333.>

 

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