Now, I’ve gotta do a post about my mates and how they were during the whole affair. They’ve totally impressed my parents, coz Mum now bangs on about how nice my group of friends is. Coz, y’know, the thing you’re really seeking is parental approval.

Firstly, I have to give special mention to Michael and Ash, not only because they were home at the time and were the ones that attend to me at the scene. Ash had also recently finished a first aid course, so knew what to do… as well as what not to do, such as move too much. No, I have very special reasons for mentioning them – they’ve both commented on these entries on my blog.

Ash, I have to reiterate, is not a parasite. He thinks the first part made him sound like one. “It’s just based on the facts, buddy,” I shot back via text. Though I should probably point out that while Ash is a real estate agent and could’ve found a place for himself, the other two flatmates decided it was OK for Ash to move in. Permanently. And also decided they shouldn’t tell me that. So apparently, Ash wasn’t the problem. I didn’t have a problem with Ash being there, at all – I just thought four people in a three-bedroom apartment was too many. Would’ve said the same about anybody that was moved in without my knowledge or approval.

Michael, on the other hand, pointed out – via Facebook comments – that I haven’t mentioned that he came into hospital every day. In his words: “Hey I think my computer is not working....cant seem to see the part of the blog that says "Michael came and visted me every day at Hospital and spent $1000 on parking fees"....but I am sure it must be there.”

So yes, Michael came in to the hospital every day after work. He even started bringing me cigarettes (y’know, like you would for a prisioner) when my family refused to get me any because their suggestive tactics didn’t work. Maybe if I was left a bit more retarded, I would’ve fallen for their ‘but Josh, you never smoked’ tactic, but hey, I’m just sharp.

Because there’s been a lot of focus on me and my recovery, I’ve been trying to ask my friends what their reaction to the accident was. Partly so I don’t feel so narcissistic.

The most memorable is my friend Leila – another friend, Bree, called to tell her, and Leila asked, “Josh? (Pause) Josh Dare?” I was as shocked as Leila, believe me. Dunno why I’ve singled out that one, but it’s just the first to come to mind.

For a while in rehab, I was asking the best way to tell people what happened to me – only because I had a tendency to blurt out too much info. I was having a text conversation with Troy, who I just told I was in an accident and in hospital. I must’ve taken too long to write back, coz he shot, “What, you’ve fallen into a coma now?” And I replited, “Actually, I was in a coma for a while…”

Another guy, who I hardly know, had apparently tried calling me while I was in hospital but before I got my phone back, so thought I should send him a text. “I just find that pretty hard to believe,” he replied. Come in to hospital and see the scars, I told him. He did. Showed him, I guess.

My other friends all got together at the old apartment the weekend after I was hit. I’d like to think that they all traded their personal heartfelt stories about me to ease the pain, but like I said before, not been left retarded.