The Franco-German-Quebecker-Saarländer is here

The usual manic rush-around before a guest arrives. Strip the spare bed, make it up again, clean the shower in the basement flat, vacuum, go shopping to get food and drink in. Pretend to work.
 
Dirk arrived mid-afternoon from Quebec City, and we spent the afternoon in the garden sampling various Ontario beers. Ottawacker Jr was still home from school sick, so he was ensconced in his room discovering Nancy Drew novels (and getting through them at the rate of one or two a day).
 
Then Mrs Ottawacker offered to take him for a bike ride, and the drama started. Coming down Kilborn, he picked up a bit too much speed and went arse over tit on the pavement. Fortunately, the bus was in front of him and he was in the bike lane. Nothing major, a scraped arm and hip, a minor bruise on his shoulder. Even the bike seemed to come out of it safely. The bus driver, who wasn’t involved in any way at all, kindly got off the bus and offered his phone to Mrs Ottawacker so she could call 9-1-1 or me. She called me. I’ve always told her I am not the “phone-a-friend” option.
 
Look at it from my perspective. I run in from the garden to get the phone, which I miss by seconds. It shows an unknown name and a number I don’t recognize. There is no message. What would you do? Ignore it, right, assume it was either the Bangalore branch of Robocallers Anonymous making a late weekend call for fun or it was a wrong number? How am I supposed to know it was the light of my life and the plum of my loins looking for a ride back from the scene of an accident? Exactly.
 
Anyway, they somehow made it home, Ottawacker Jr limping on both legs and holding various body parts, Mrs Ottawacker pushing two bikes and pursing her lips in that formidable way of hers. By the time they got back, we were on our fourth beer and I had finished preparing the potatoes and salad for the ribs we were having for dinner.
 
Both have made splendid recoveries.