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. My wife thought otherwise — and she was right; 48 hours later I looked terrible, much worse that I had done immediately afterwards. Blood collected beneath my eyes, giving me dark red half-moon spectacles, and the cuts and grazes on my face had acquired a stripy, tiger-like appearance. Meanwhile, my forehead was a patchwork quilt of stitches. All that was missing were a couple of bolts in my neck. ‘Daddy,’ said my four-year-old son, ‘you look like a monster.’
I was due to fly to Las Vegas on Saturday morning and I was worried the Virgin Atlantic check-in clerk wouldn’t let me on the plane, I looked so awful. In fact, she didn’t bat an eyelid, possibly because I was surrounded by the ‘Hatton Horde’ — fans of Ricky Hatton who were off to Vegas to support the ‘Pride of Hyde’. Next to them, I looked quite civilised. In retrospect, though, it may have been a mistake to embark on a ten-hour flight, particularly as I was in Economy. If I had hit my forehead on one of the overhead bins I might have been in trouble.
The wounds have already begun to clear up, but the psychological effects of the accident may take longer to heal. I used to think of my body as being like a suit of armour, capable of withstanding any number of knocks and bruises. But the ease with which it was sliced open has changed my perception of it. It now feels as if my bones are covered in something soft and vulnerable, no more robust than a ripe peach. As a result, I’m much more nervous about bumping into anything. I’m not merely walking on eggshells — I am an eggshell.
Inevitably, the experience has left me with a greater sense of my own mortality. Everyone tells me how lucky I was — which on the face of it is absurd. Surely, I was unlucky in that I happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? But I was fortunate that the injury wasn’t more severe. If the back of my head had hit the asphalt, rather than the front, I might have been killed. In the past, I felt protected from such terrible possibilities because they were so remote. Now they feel like real threats. I tell myself that I’m no more likely to be the victim of a horrible accident than I was before I got knocked off my bike, but at a pre-rational level I’m gripped by fear. What happened to my guardian angel? Why has she deserted me? I won’t be walking under any ladders for a long time.
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