As with all road accidents, there was that initial feeling of euphoria — a kind of ecstatic languor. Why is that? Is it to do with losing control? It’s gone almost before you notice it, and then the internal audit begins. I knew I’d hit my head quite hard because I had to struggle to stay conscious. I also saw the drops of blood, falling like raindrops on my shirt and tie. I began to roll something hard and jagged around my tongue — was that a tooth? — but as far as I could tell no bones were broken. Yes, I thought. I’m basically okay. A lucky escape. Now if I can just find my bicycle…
Seventeen hours later I emerged from Chelsea & Westminster with 21 stitches in my head, having spent an hour and a half on an operating table. As head injuries go, it really wasn’t bad, particularly considering I’d been hit by a car. I sustained some minor nerve damage, but my brain seemed okay. There was no haemorrhaging, no memory loss. The only serious injury was to my forehead. There was an area on the left-hand side, about the diameter of a Coca-Cola can, that had literally burst on hitting the asphalt. Odd word to use, but that’s what the doctor called it: a burst injury. It looked like a firework had exploded just beneath my scalp.
I spent the next few days making a series of larger and larger adjustments. I kept thinking I didn’t need to change my plans — that I could just carry on, regardless — only to be brought up short by my injuries. For instance, I was supposed to be doing a television interview in Oxford two days after the accident and, from my hospital bed, as I was waiting to go into theatre, I called the director and told him it would be fine to go ahead.
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