THE BRITISH ARE COMING THE BRITISH ARE COMING!

Today, if you had been standing on a certain street in a particular town in the south of Australia, you would have seen a sweat-shirted girl with ponytail flying like a flag from the northwestern region of her head, doubled over, all out of breath.  That girl was me.  I wasn't being hotly pursued by the Redcoats ( although I wouldn't mind being hotly pursued by a Brit, provided he loved Jesus and had good teeth) but there was an equatable level of relief when I reached my destination as a colonist who had narrowly escaped. 

This sort of relief goes above and beyond the "as;kdjfa;wueha;kjfd, so glad that run is over."  You see, dear reader, during one of my summer adventures, I slipped off of a rock.  This rock happened to be beside a stream, whose temperatures were probably below fifty.  Across this stream happened to be laying a large log, stripped of bark and foliage but riddled with evil poky parts.  I slipped off of the rock, into the stream with the water so cold, and landed on the tree... I think.  That's what they tell me.  All I remember is slipping, gasping at the cold, and swimming so I could perch myself on the log and not be swept down the waterfall.  

Somewhere in the slipping, falling, landing there was a stabbing.  Something, probably an evil poky, had the audacity to invade my epidermis and stir it into a fleshy mess.  I venture to say the only time I've lost more blood is when I've given it voluntarily.  Anyway, climbed out of the stream, jumped off the waterfalls that followed (about 6 or 7).  Got back to the condo and Shaney McShanerson cleaned up the mess for me.  

Fast forward a few weeks, I've been home a while, the antibiotic for the streaking hot redness down my leg has been taken, the lovely purple scar has replaced the scab, etc.  So I run, as is my habit, and I last a minute.  A MINUTE.  This is not an exaggeration in the negative.  The old joint just wouldn't have it.  Fast forward to this morning.  It was only 11 minutes, but the knee was fine.  The scar's still ugly, and the other knee's still a little bruised, but we're up and running again.  Thank you, Jesus for legs that can run, whether from fear of Redcoats or just the fear of gaining 15 pounds while on working holiday in Australia.

Today SG and I are off to explore Main Street.  Last night we weathered our first rugby match, and I do mean weathered - to the tune of a long sleeved shirt, two sweatshirts and a puffy vest.  Tonight we have our first dinner engagement, and tomorrow we have our first full Sunday at the church.  We have met so many wonderful people, including John the Irishman who we went to the rugby match with last night.  Wow.  I thought I wanted to marry a Texan, then an Australian, but now I'm thinking Irishman.  Between watching Leap Year and listening to John (who's old and married with kids, put those inquisitive eyebrows down) use the English language (sort of), Irish is in the lead. 

So continue the adventures of Little Miss Sunshine in the Land Down Undah.