In a turn of events that would make even the most stoic of gin-soaked hacks pause mid-swig, the earth decided to shake the living daylights out of Venezuela, and in the ensuing rubble, a mother has achieved what the United Nations has failed to do for decades: she saved a life. Specifically, her daughter's.
Reports trickling in from the epicentre of the disaster, which is presumably somewhere near the intersection of tectonic plates and abject human misery, indicate that the unnamed heroine threw herself over her child as the walls came crashing down. British aid workers, who have presumably been flown in to offer condolences and possibly some tinned beans, have described her actions as 'extraordinary courage'. One can only imagine the stiff upper lips quivering under the strain of such profound understatement.
Let us dissect this nugget of news with the surgical precision of a man who has had three gins before lunch. Here we have a mother, in a country battered by economic collapse, political turmoil, and now geological fury, who manages to perform the ultimate act of selflessness. Meanwhile, in the comfort of my London flat, I struggle to find the courage to return a faulty toaster. The universe has a sick sense of humour, doesn't it?
The aid workers from Her Majesty's government, bless their khaki-clad hearts, have presumably been dispatched with a briefcase full of platitudes and a budget that wouldn't cover a round of drinks at the Savoy. They will pat survivors on the head, mutter about British resilience, and then fly home to write reports that will gather dust in Whitehall. But let us not be cynical. Well, let us be cynical, but also acknowledge that sometimes, just sometimes, human beings do something that isn't entirely driven by self-interest.
The quake, which struck with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the cranium, has left thousands homeless. But the news cycle, fickle beast that it is, has already latched onto this single story of maternal sacrifice. Why? Because it sells. Because it makes us feel warm and fuzzy about the species that brought us Brexit and reality television.
I propose a toast: to the mother who died so her daughter could live. To the UK aid workers who, for all their bureaucratic nonsense, are probably decent people doing a grim job. And to the tectonic plates, for reminding us that no matter how many spreadsheets we create or meetings we schedule, the planet can still squash us like ants.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to check on my own mother. And possibly open another bottle of gin. The world is ending, after all, and we must be properly lubricated for the apocalypse.
