In a tale that proves even the universe has a sense of the absurd, a three-year-old child has been plucked from the rubble of a collapsed building in Venezuela after six days. The child, a tiny warrior with lungs of brass and a will of tungsten, is now being treated by British medics. One can only imagine their surgical precision: a dab of TCP, a jelly baby, and a stiff gin for the attending physician.
Let us pause to admire the sheer defiance of this toddler. While the adults around them were probably busy blaming Nicolas Maduro, the opposition, the CIA, or the mysterious third thing that always gets blamed, this child simply refused to die. For six days. Without a smartphone, without a snack, without even a Peppa Pig marathon. This is the kind of resilience that makes you wonder if we’ve got the evolution thing backwards. Perhaps we should be electing toddlers to public office. At least they wouldn’t be caught embezzling the national treasury to buy golden toilet brushes.
And then, the cavalry arrives. British medics. The same people who brought you the NHS, the stiff upper lip, and the ability to queue for five hours with a broken leg. They descend on this disaster zone with their suitcases of miracles and their not-so-secret weapon: a thermos of tea. One can picture the conversation: “Right then, little chap, let’s have a look. Has he had his jabs? No? Well, we’ll sort that. Pass the Calpol and a Garibaldi biscuit.”
But let us be serious for a moment, if that is even possible when the world is this farcical. This child survived. In a country where the infrastructure has crumbled faster than a stale Hobnob. Where the healthcare system is so broken that a papercut could land you in the morgue. Yet here is a child, pulled from the wreckage, breathing, blinking, possibly demanding a lollipop.
The question that gnaws at my gnat-sized attention span is this: what was this child doing in a building that collapsed? Was it a hospital? A school? A government building that was probably built with the same materials as a Trump Tower façade? The BBC, in its infinite vagueness, says only “rubble.” Ah, rubble. The universal building block of failed states.
Meanwhile, the British medics are performing the real miracle: keeping this child alive against the odds. They are probably doing it with a combination of advanced medical knowledge and the kind of plucky optimism that makes you want to hug a hedgehog. I salute them. I also salute the child, who has now become an international symbol of stubbornness. Expect a film deal. “The Toddler Who Wouldn’t Die.” Starring Jason Statham as a rescue dog.
But the real story is the system. The system that let this happen. The poverty, the corruption, the sheer bloody incompetence of the Venezuelan regime, which is so useless it couldn’t organise a photocopying session in a stationary cupboard. And yet, here is a child, saved by the grace of God and a British medical team who probably had to bribe their way through three checkpoints with nothing but a packet of Rich Tea biscuits.
This is the news that makes you want to drink. And so I shall. A toast to the toddler, the medics, and the glorious, improbable luck that sometimes, just sometimes, the universe decides to be kind. Cheers, you little survivor. You’ve earned a lifetime supply of Jaffa Cakes.
