The Donny Darko factor

Leo's school doesn't do things by halves. They regard normal sports days - all over by lunchtime, held in summer for a better chance of sunshine, as utterly wet and weedy and fit only for wimps. Theirs, in contrast, starts at 9 am, stops only when it's too dark to work out which direction the finishing line's in, and is held in April so that any overheated pupil can be well and truly cooled by torrential Spring rain, ideally served with a few bolts of lightning, hail or a small but perfectly formed plague of locusts on the side.

So the phone call from an over-excited mother to say that Leo has fallen down an entire flight of rain-sodden stairs and probably broken his arm, though alarming, isn't much of a surprise. She then calls twice more as I negotiate the rush-hour traffic, each time thoughtfully filling in a few more colourful details, like the witness to some epoch-defining disaster. "He fell really heavily," she says, then, "He was crying the most enormous tears," as I weave my way through traffic so heavy that what should be a ten minute journey stretches into three quarters of an hour, feeling increasingly scared and trying not to imagine him accessorised with gore, visible bone, and probably a compressed skull fracture, too.

When I finally get there, Leo is sitting up on the first aid bed, dry-eyed, and sporting a sling. His hand is a little red but the pain is bearable, and he goes off to collect his bag from the changing room without fuss. A trip to A&E confirms the fact that he's a bit bruised, but otherwise fine. Deborah is not pleased. "You love Leo more than you love me," she whines, as I question him about the accident.

I call Francis to tell him the news, refraining from sharing my feeling that we're either in a Donny Darko-style tangential universe, still plugged into to Janet's subconscious or in the grip of a divine presence who is urging us to count our blessings, or else. There are times when the volume and timing of heavily significant events makes being a no-nonsense atheist seems almost perverse.

Francis, so far, has not been offered a job, but, like somebody at a children's party, two crystal tumblers by way of a consolation prize. If he collects enough glassware, I ask, can he swap them for a job, instead. I'm expecting silence but, at the other end of the phone, he almost laughs. It's the first time in a week he's sounded even slightly amused. Surely that's a good sign.