I was crossing 34th when it hit me - a seven-ton truck, that is. Well it killed me instantly, none of your "quick, call an ambulance!" business, more of a "has anybody got a shovel handy?" situation.

Everybody gathered round to see the colourful patterns I'd made, but crimson red turning muddy brown amid the gobbets and globules of goo didn't really make an oil painting. It was a bit depressing, apart from the pink silk colour from my scarf, that I had recently been given as a "Good Luck" gift - that helped to brighten it up.

My shoes had ended up rather neatly together in the gutter, both pointing in the same direction and with uppers up. My feet weren't in them anymore, they were still attached to my legs, which weren't so neatly positioned. Neither were my arms. The one still attached to the body was twisted at rather a novel angle, whilst the one that had been ripped off had ended up on the central reservation, hand in the air, the wrist holding aloft my watch, seemingly unharmed, and still ticking away the seconds quite contentedly to itself.

Now where has my head got to. Ah, there it is underneath the lorry, and oozing some pretty yucky grey stuff, for that matter. How gross.

I can hear sirens in the distance, though I don't know what the rush is for. They've probably got the 'blues and twos' on through force of habit.

The crowd already seems to be thinning out. Excitement over, let's get back to the shopping mall. Perhaps they found it all a bit disappointing, what with no gallant, last-ditch, life-saving, but-sadly-in-vain efforts on behalf of the medics to save a, relatively intact, accident victim. I think the gore put them off. Apart from that chap who has just picked up my purse, he seems quite cheerful.

Oh, well, I suppose I'd better be off. Things to do, you know.

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