ʎɹɹo˥
We've just had a sorely-needed weekend in Portland in Maine, not really doing anything in particular except enjoying room service and the town around us. The journey back down had some excitement, though - I was sort of tutoring Whitney on driving on the freeway, mentioning things like how I had been too close to the last lorry we overtook - a warning that proved appropriate when the one in front of us fell over.
The people directly in front of us came to a sudden stop and I did the same, emerging from the car and calling out to make sure that someone had dialled for an ambulance, as I knew that often everyone assumes that everyone else already has. In retrospect I should have done it myself, but I think that years of strict conditioning to only call 999 in a genuine emergency have left me unable to appropriately determine what a genuine emergency is. Massive potentially explosive vehicle the wrong way up and blocking two lanes of a major motorway? Unsure, still assessing the situation.
As you can see by the deep tyre track carved out on the snowbank, the lorry seemed to have just veered too far to the left and slipped. Some people cautiously approached the cabin to see if the driver was all right - I didn't see him myself, but they said he looked fine and was even standing up. Meanwhile, I walked a distance behind our car and waved my arms obviously to the side in an attempt to direct the traffic that had halted behind us, but they were being uncharacteristically good at merging together, making me pretty much unnecessary. So I wasn't exactly Buzz Lightyear to The Rescue as I'd like to think I would have been in a crisis, but the news quickly arrived followed by the police, and once it was clear there weren't any injuries, we just left and let them handle things from there.