Last Tuesday I went to work. I rent office space from Regus on the Euston Road and cycle there most days. On this particular day I caught the tube. It gets more interesting so hang in there.

As I approached the office from Warren Street tube I noticed police and ambulance services down the side of the building. I was curious and had a brief glimpse but all the action was hidden from view so I walked on, signed in and called the lift.

“Wonder what was going on down there?” I said to a woman as we both waited in the lobby. She smiled back.

There are eight lifts in the building. Seven take you up inside the guts; the eighth is built onto the outside and constructed from glass. This means you can see all around as you elevate.

The outside lift pinged and we go in.

Lifts are awkward places. Being yourself is tricky and breaking wind wildly unpopular so I looked out of the window. As we climbed I could see more of the milling below. There were far more police and ambulance technicians than I’d realised.

The lift pinged. Third floor. My floor.

I looked down.

A naked man, lifeless on his back, bloodied face, surrounded by paramedics

“Oh Jesus,” I said to the lady. She looked too. “Oh god,” she said.

I got out, felt unusual and headed for third floor reception.

“What on earth?” I asked.
“They think he jumped,” said the receptionist.
“From the 16th floor?”
“They found his clothes on the roof.”

This was some distressing shit.

I called Joan, who works next door. Actually next door.

“Hi Joan, it’s Wordy here. I’ve just seen something distinctly unpleasant and I need a cuddle. Can we meet downstairs?”

We met and Joan duly obliged.

Feeling better I ventured back indoors. The outside lift was now shut off.

When I arrived back on the third floor a new story was taking shape. It seemed the man may have jumped from one of the floors. Apparently one window on each floor opens. They took me round and showed me. The line of the window corresponded with where the man was lying.

I felt sick. We all did.

I went back to my desk but remained distracted. The man in the office with me couldn’t give two hoots. Moments after I told him what had happened he asked me how to get to Euston station. Life goes on.

I strolled back to reception.

“Now they think he climbed up then fell,” said the receptionist. “We saw him being taken away. It took them ages to get him into the ambulance but he was still breathing.”
“What about his clothes?”
“Apparently the paramedics cut them off.”

What I had seen – the image I was struggling to wipe from my mind – was not as it had first appeared. Slowly I absorbed the new truth. Slowly I was able to get on with my work.

It remains a sad, distressing tale. The man clearly wasn’t of sound mind. No one knows how far he fell. The police aren’t giving away any details. There was nothing in the paper about it. Life goes on*

TTFN,

Saul

* Joan and I are to become parents in September.

Lately I’ve become obsessed with this footage of the Tour de France. The video features Lance Armstrong and Marco Pantani battling for supremacy on Mont Ventoux, the mountain where Britain’s Tommy Simpson died of a heart attack in 1967.

Below it you will find a video of your truly on said mountain…

The soundtrack synchs perfectly with the footage. I recently converted it to mp3 and listened to it on a loop as I rode through London, before scaling back to Frank Skinner podcasts until it dawned on me I’m probably better off not having anything in my ears while cycling through town.

Pantani died of a cocaine overdose in a motel in 2004.

I know how steep Mont Ventoux is. Joan and I visited it last year.

Didn’t see you there.

Happy New Year! I hope 2012 brings you everything you ever dreamed of in terms of kitchen gadgetry.

I want to let you know about my recent experience of nearly being beaten to death.

The image above is an example of what I would look like had I been beaten up. I haven’t been. That picture is from last year after I fell off my bike. I included it so you’d read on.

It’s a cheap trick I learnt from the tabloids. I’m really sorry but my Google Analytics have fallen away recently so I’m sure you can sympathise.

However I did come close – MIGHTY close – to be being brutally assaulted last Friday.

So near as damnit as to make no difference I’d say.

000000000000000000000000000

I was at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street, London, the world. This cavernous watering hole is a former stomping ground of Charles Dickens, William Wordsworth and TV’s Paul Daniels. It also serves cheap beer. For these reasons it is my spiritual home.

I had arranged to meet Naught Nick (NN) there. NN was late and the place was busy as I stumbled through its labyrinth of snugs, crannies and nooks in my quest for a seat. About to give up, I happened upon an attractive 30-something lady on a table built for four.

“Mind if I sit here?” I said to said lady. “My friend is coming soon.”

It was then I noticed a bulky overcoat on the bench opposite.

“Of course not,” she said beaming a beatific smile. “Let me move my husband’s coat and you can sit opposite us.”

I hadn’t planned for a husband but this didn’t really change anything in the short to medium to long term.

It was as I pondered this minor detail that an extremely enormous monster appeared out of nowhere, cradling a pint in its massive hand and wearing a face that could launch a thousand self-soiling episodes.

The monster didn’t say anything, it just stared.

Then it said something.

“WHAT THE FOOK IS GOING ON?”.

It was a northern monster of some kind.

The lady spoke.

“This gentleman needs a seat so I’m moving your things so you can sit next to me, darling.”

Again it didn’t say anything, it just stared.

Then it spoke again.

“YOU TELLING ME THERE AREN’T ANY OTHER SEATS ANYWHERE ELSE IN THIS WHOLE FOOKIN’ PLACE?”

This was directed at me – the staree – and was my first opportunity to participate in the discussion.

“No,” I squeaked. “It’s completely full, sir”

The 20 stone monster sat. Trembling, I did the same.

I was now staring at the married couple, in an upright bench, separated by an extremely shallow table. It felt unnecessarily intimate.

“MY WIFE AND ME ARE HAVING A ROMANTIC EVENING,” glared the monster, without blinking. It continued to stare at me. I focused on the vein beating a rhythm on its forehead. Its face was nearly touching mine. I have no idea why the lady chose to place me opposite. This was too weird.

“This is too weird,” I said. “I think I’m going to move.”

“There’s really no need to,” said the fetching dame.

The monster’s expression didn’t change. It sipped its pint. Then once more it spoke.

“MY WIFE IS AN EXTREMELY ACCOMMODATING WOMAN.”

This, I must confess, set the cat amongst the pigeons. When a man – or a monster – uses the words “wife” and “accommodating” in the same sentence it usually means I am being called upon yet again to service the woman while the husband relaxes in a nearby armchair.

On this occasion I felt this was not the intended meaning.

“Too accommodating?” I inquired, seeking clarification while secretly hoping that I may still be required to make love to the nearby beauty.

“AYE,” the monster replied.

I picked up my pint and rose (I mean I stood – that Friday I had no flowers with me). The lovely wife, with whom if things had turned out differently I could have been romancing somewhere sexy like the nether regions, was mouthing “sorry”. I thought I may have caught an additional “take me with you”, but didn’t dare look for too long in case I was murdered by the behemoth opposite.

“ENJOY YOUR EVENING,” it said, staring straight ahead.

“Likewise,” I said and traipsed off*

As I did so I muttered ‘shit-muncher’, believing the lumbering beast to be out of earshot.

This was a massive error

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” bellowed the giant, rearing up to its full height and brushing the ceiling with its tiny hairs.

I spun round and was grasped by the throat.

“I said you’re a shit-muncher.”

The monster’s stare relayed in non-verbal form the fact that I was now close to death – but, dear reader, I was all of a sudden swept over by an inner calm, much like mustard gas.

“Where do you get off intimidating people out of their seats?” I said, boldly. “This is London. There isn’t much room. We have to share space. And why come to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese for a romantic drink on a Friday night anyway? It’s a busy pub. Dickens used to drink here, you know? People flock from miles around to drink in the same pub Dickens drank in. You should have gone somewhere quieter, like The Feathers of Welwyn Garden City.”

There was a long pause. The monster raised its ugly fist as if to crush me with a single blow. I stood, unmoved, then slowly its arm slunk back down, all the way down, until it rested once more against its side. Its grip loosened around my neck.

“You’re right,” it said, mumbling, looking down. “I’ve forgotten my manners. It’s been so long since me and Debs have been out together I’ve placed far too much import by the occasion. I hope you don’t mind if I’m frank but I fear our marriage is on its last legs. I feel like this was our last chance to to connect in the way we used. You know what that’s like don’t you – when you meet someone and your whole world changes?”

I nodded sagely. The monster’s eyes were full of tears.

“I was entirely in the wrong,” it continued. “Please accept my sincerest apologies. Come join us.”

I ignored the monster’s use of American phraseology and paused to consider my response.

“That’s very kind,” I said, “but no. You are clearly in need of special times with your enchanting partner. Enjoy yourself without me. I wish you nothing but the best.”

The giant stuck a mammoth paw in its pocket.

“Here’s an Ayrton,” it said. “Go out and have yourself an incredible evening.”

“Keep it,” I retorted. “Buy something pretty for your unbelievably attractive wife.”

Dumbfounded, the monster slumped back down and wept into the arms of its extremely beautiful lover.

I went and sat on a wooden bench nearby and watched as the woman held the monster, caressing its horns. Two men walked over to their table. Shortly after I saw both men flying through the air before smashing into the wall behind me, sliding to the ground in a bloody heap. Only one was breathing.

The End

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* Asterisk denotes point beyond which story is untrue

A little while back I made this video for a client.

It’s not entirely hateful.

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Until Saturday.

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Frankly Mr Shankly it’s been a busy few weeks. So as to spare you the burden of detail I thought I might dilute my words with a smattering of pictures.

So I have.

Although I hope very much you enjoy this blog I realise I cannot control such factors. Instead I must remember that at best I have only a very limited control over my own destiny – or none at all if you believe in determinism.

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In September I walked a dog in Lake Garda.

This is Joan and she looks nonplussed…

Thankfully Joan makes up for her nonplussed state by taking this excellent glossy catalogue shot…

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A few weeks ago my friend Riaz decided he wanted to visit Anfield, home of his beloved Liverpool Football Club. Over the summer he lost his father and also happened to turn 40 so this was something of a special occasion.

We sourced tickets, he flew over from the Middle East and up we went.

Riaz has always been annoyingly good-looking. At university we’d often meet girls together.

“Hi,” I’d say. “My name is Saul.”
“Hi Saul,” they’d reply, reluctantly parting with their names.
“Oh,” I’d continue, “And this is Riaz,”
“OH HI RIAZ!!” they’d shriek, practically slipping on their own saliva.

Luckily he’s lost his looks.

(btw Razzle sorry I’ve told everyone you’re 40, how mean of me!).

We watched the game – an easy 2-0 win for Liverpool over Wolves – then hit the town (the town hit back and we lost 3-0).

The following morning we attended a ‘Legends’ Tour’ with Phil Neale, a stalwart of LFC in the 70s and 80s.

This is Mr Neale today.

I was a Liverpool fan in the early 80s, a paid-up member of the Liverpool Fanclub and proud owner of the infamous yellow ‘Crown Paints’ away kit. Gradually during my teenage years however I thought my way out of fandom, convincing myself I had no business supporting a team I’d never visited nor had any links with. This is known as over-analysis though it has probably saved me much heartache in the ensuing 20 years (Liverpool have been mostly average).

An image from the Crown Pants years

The famous “This is Anfield” sign, erected by Liverpool manager Sir Bill Shankly in the 60s to a) intimidate the opposition and b) infuse the Liverpool players with pride and confidence. A master stroke.

It’s compulsory to touch it.

So we both touched it.

The changing room.

I’m seated in front of the shirt belonging to Liverpool ace Steven Gerrard. After this shot was taken I emptied an entire packet of itching powder over it. You may remember him scratching uncontrollably during Liverpool’s next game vs Everton.

*****

The following week it was my friend George’s wedding.

He had asked me to perform best man duties (though not, I hasten to add, in the Adam Werritty sense).

I arrived at the venue with the speech half-written, a far from satisfactory situation.

One of my concerns centred on the inclusion or otherwise of the word ‘fuck’.

Feeling unsure, I sought guidance from my trusty Hard Days Night Hotel pen.

On the morning of the Big Day the ushers all gathered in a private room to feed George whiskey and beer. Luckily they knew what they were doing because they’re all doctors.

Left to right: George (orthopaedic surgeon), Big Kev (vascular surgeon), the author (charlatan), Stu (GP), Tom (GP).

Photographs by Dr Kev (oncologist).

This one’s good too.

After the ceremony during which I was required to do absolutely nothing save sit at the front and guess when we were supposed to stand (the whole thing was conducted in Polish) it was back to the hotel for staring at the newlyweds, dinner and speeches.

Joan did a decent job of taking candid shots of George’s family from between our glasses.

Just time for some last minute amendments…

…and the speech went fine.

I even managed to squeeze in the threatened ‘fuck’ and was duly rewarded with a kiss from Joan.

What then ensued was quite simply one of the best parties I have ever attended, enhanced undoubtedly by the heavy presence of Polish vodka.

You know it’s a good party when Dr Jones plays the chair.

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A week later I entered a bike race with my cousin Luke and his friend Jez.

It began and ended in Dorking, with 101 miles of sheer hell in between. This included five huge hills, one of which – Box Hill – will feature in next year’s Olympic route and another – White Down – which boasted an 18% gradient.

That’s a cunt of a climb and no mistake.

Here’s Luke…

Jezza…

…and the author

Not really.

HERE I am…

Things were going swimmingly until I reached the 90 mile mark, whereupon all sorts of peculiar events transpired. Firstly I bonked, a cycling term referring to the point at which the rider loses all semblance of energy due to lack of food.

While struggling with my bonking I noticed that Little Saul had gone numb. This is not an uncommon occurrence in cyclists, or extremely elderly men, but I’d never experienced it and wouldn’t wish it on anyone’s Little Friend. Thankfully after a little, erm, massaging, things returned to normal.

Then I was stung by a wasp.

Meanwhile my back had been seizing up since the 50 mile mark. By the time we finished I could barely move and had to hobble over to the honesty massage tent for a rub-down from Vincent. This wasn’t exactly how I’d imaged the day would end but Big Vince did save me a good deal of discomfort.

Then of course Luke’s car wouldn’t start and we were stuck waiting for the AA until nearly 10pm, four hours after everyone else had left.

Then of course the AA man could only take us to Tadworth on account of EU regulations stipulating he mustn’t work for more than two consecutive hours without a three week break.

Still it was a great day.

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Did you like this blog?
If you did great.
If you didn’t go fuck yourself.

With love.

Some people feel too much fuss is being made over his death. My guess is these people are not Apple computer users. I am preternaturally grateful to Mr Jobs on account of the everyday miracle of engineering that is my MacBook Pro.

Here is the article

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The Long Goodbye

As Steve Jobs finally stands down from Apple, Saul Wordsworth considers his philosophy and legacy

In August 2008 Bloomberg mistakenly published an obituary of Apple chief executive, Steve Jobs. Jobs responded by quoting Mark Twain’s oft-cited refrain: “Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated”. Fast forward to August of this year and in a letter addressed to the Apple Board of Directors and the Apple Community Jobs states, “I have always said that if there ever came a day when I could no longer meet my duties and expectations as Apple’s CEO, I would be the first to let you know. Unfortunately, that day has come.”

Lost in the understandable sadness and speculation about the future of the company is the concept of an Apple “community”. How many other organisations could be said to have created a band of devotees on such a scale? There are hundreds of millions of Apple aficionados throughout the world, all borne of Jobs’ creativity, passion, good taste, force of personality and vision. The demonstration of a new Apple product, always fronted by its enthusiastic CEO in trademark black turtleneck, blue jeans and scruffy trainers, has increasingly held the aura of a magic show, pushing the boundaries of what a human can conceive, making Jobs himself seem like a cross between a conjuror and a rock star.

“There’s an old Wayne Gretzky quote that I love,” said Jobs. “‘I skate to where the puck is going to be, not where it has been.’ And we’ve always tried to do that at Apple. Since the very very beginning. And we always will.”

Philosophy

Charismatic, tyrannical, brilliant beyond compare, it could be argued that Jobs has influenced our culture more than any other human being in the past 30 years. It is not merely a technological achievement. In the same way that the development of the motorcar altered the way human beings lived, so this college dropout from Silicon Valley turned computing into the most personal, direct and pleasurable experience it could be, making computers as easy to use as the telephones and turning telephones into high-functioning computers.

“Steve Jobs has always understood that as human beings our first relationship with anything is an emotional one,” says Stephen Fry, personal friend and renowned technophile. “Architects recognise this. Jobs understood that computers are like buildings; people visit them every day. People log on and spend their lives inside an operating system and he thought they should be smooth and beautiful in the same way a building can be charming and delightful and a place you want to revisit. He saw that a device that sits in your hand and connects you to people isn’t just a sum of its functions, it’s something that should make you smile, that you should cradle, love, have an emotional relationship with. And if people think that’s pretentious then the success of Apple is proof of how wrong they are.”

Background

The unusual slant that Jobs brought to the personal computing market can be traced back to his early years. Adopted at birth, the young Jobs was indeed a college dropout albeit one who hung around for a further 18 months and ‘dropped in’ on what he regarded as the ‘interesting’ courses. This led him to take classes in calligraphy, “knowing nothing would come of them”, only for this to inspire what he calls, “the beautiful calligraphy of the first personal computer by Apple – and since Windows just copied the Mac it’s likely no personal computer would be like this were it not for those classes”. During this period he slept on floors, cashed in empty coke bottles, experimented with LSD, travelled to India and converted to Buddhism.

In 1976 Jobs’ formation of Apple with local computer whizz Steve Wozniak led to instant success. Shares in the company were so sought after that by the time it floated four years later it became the biggest stock market launch since Ford in 1956. Yet his perfectionism combined with a lack of business awareness led to boardroom clashes and he was ousted from his own company in 1985.

Not lingering long to lick his wounds Jobs founded Pixar – later to become synonymous with brilliant animation – along with NeXT, a quality computer workstation firm. 11 years later Apple bought NeXT, acquiring not only the OS X software that has underpinned every product Apple has made since, but Jobs himself. Jobs set about cancelling projects he deemed wasteful before hauling Apple back to and beyond their glory days with first the iMac then a series of increasingly awe-inspiring innovations such as the iPod, iPhone and iPad, thereby ring-fencing for Apple the crucial modern markets of computing, online music and mobile devices.

Design

“The Macintosh turned out so well,” Jobs once said, “because the people working on it were musicians, artists, poets and historians who also happened to be excellent computer scientists.” Whether this is true or not, the value of an Apple product to the consumer lies in the coming together of science and art. Therein lies the heart of Jobs’ vision.

“Steve Jobs has an artists’ eye as well as a definition of what great engineering is,” said chairman of Google, Eric Schmidt, recently. Apple’s combination of cutting-edge electronics, intuitive operation and aesthetic beauty has created unparalleled brand loyalty, together with a mythical status bestowed upon its founder. From the eye-catching translucent casing of the iMac to the silver sliver of the MacBook Air, all Apple products have a visual ‘wow’ factor. Meanwhile the personal relationship Jobs wished to embody between man and machine is personified in everything from his early adoption of the mouse to the use of ‘pinch’ on the iPhone and iPad, a system that takes personal involvement to new heights. All of these elements allied to a staggering attention to detail and hands-on approach made Jobs a formidable boss, and one with grand ambitions.

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life selling sugar water,” he famously said to John Sculley, then CEO of Pepsi, when trying to persuade him to join Apple, “or do you want to change the world?”

Legacy

Steve Jobs remains synonymous with Apple, in particular its recent transformation into the undisputed market leader. The almost childlike excitement he showed for his own products was infectious and his anti-corporate persona proved popular – he was recently voted the most admired entrepreneur amongst teenagers worldwide. Whilst company shares fell by 4.1% upon his departure (officially to become chairman of the firm), they have since stabilised. Jobs leaves Apple in astonishingly robust shape with a war chest of £48b, enough to buy Tesco and BT, or go some way towards fixing the British economy.

How long the company can remain an extension of his coruscating personality remains to be seen. As Dan Crow, former Senior Apple Engineer and long-standing colleague of Jobs put it, “Even when Steve isn’t personally involved in a product, his philosophy is so well understood in the company that it pervades everything Apple does. It’s hard to see how that influence can remain at the level it is now because Steve is such a personality, and his influence is a very powerful tool in the company that is used to maintain standards.”
What we do know is that he leaves behind Jony Ive, the British designer with whom he devised Apple’s most eye-catching products, along with Tim Cook, the former Chief Operating Officer who has been embedded at Apple for over a decade and now takes over as CEO.

The world of computing and beyond wish him good health but it seems this is the one area of his life where he has lacked the Midas touch. Most admit he is unlikely to make a return, though few doubt he will continue to exert as much influence as he can, while he can.

Like most geniuses Jobs could be difficult, sometimes unpleasant, occasionally impossible. Nor does Apple possess an unimpeachable record, with conditions at some of its factories in China regularly called into question and a scaling back of its philanthropic work under Jobs. But his legacy will be an overwhelming powerful one, that of a man with a unique ability to anticipate trends who helped create a portfolio of products that changed the world.

“Remembering that I’ll be dead soon is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life,” said Jobs at his Stanford commencement speech in 2005. “Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”

This article was written on a MacBook Pro.

What are we to make of it all? Dead at 27 and only two albums in her wake. She won an Ivor Novello award for Stronger Than Me on Frank, her first studio album. Yet by the time she came to record her second and final effort, the classic Back to Black, she was already wrung out by her first attempt at love with Blake Fielder-Civil – her inspiration for the songs – and strung out on drink and drugs. That was in 2006. She never made another record, nor did she flash again that infectious smile that accompanied her stunning arrival back in 2003.

Being an artist is to have the gift of insight borne of heightened sensitivity. This ability to see, observe and feel more than others has resulted in great works down the ages from the likes of Sylvia Plath, Virginia Wolf, Kurt Cobain, Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway. The list is endless and well-worn.

The flip side is the difficulties these people have with everyday living. Nick Drake, a English singer-songwriter from the late 60s, is a perfect study: delicate, unusual, troubled, talented beyond compare. Like Winehouse – who admitted she was no natural performer – he struggled to play live. A documentary about his life is entitled A Skin Too Few. Perhaps that sums up the predicament of many of these more ‘tragic’ artists.

Amy Winehouse may have been a brilliant singer-songwriter but her aptitude for self-expression came at a cost, even before the intoxicants took hold. A broken love affair left her by her own admission sobbing on the kitchen floor “for three days”. By the end of it her flatmate simply stepped over her in order to get to the fridge.

Let us pause briefly from this unrelenting misery to watch Amy sing Stronger Than Me on Jools Holland.

Is it this level of sensitivity that leads some to experience the slings and arrows of fortune more acutely and seek solace in analgesia? Probably, though it’s impossible to quantify. Recent research suggests that predictions of drugs use in later life can only be extrapolated from those growing up in broken homes, having a drug-ingesting parents or suffer early abuse.

In the end what we have is an exceptionally talented girl in an unexceptional state: addicted to alcohol and drugs. Are there a disproportionate number of brilliant fuck-ups? Probably. But you don’t have to be a genius to be pissed all the time.

Recommended reading: this piece by Russell Brand.

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Arriving at Kentish Town station yesterday with half an hour minutes to spare I decided to take a walk to nearby Camden Square where Amy lived. My journalistic nose – and if you’ve ever met me you’ll know it’s a biggie – was curious.

This may seem ghoulish to some but as a north London Jew I did feel a certain kinship with Amy Winehouse. I saw her a near my house a few times (sometimes swaying, sometimes not). This accessibility – her reluctance to lock herself away in the Hollywood Hills (which she could easily have done) in favour of a healthy number of sherbets at the Hawley Arms in Camden – leant her an of-the-people air.

It would certainly explain the mini-Diana goings-on I witnessed in Camden Square. Flowers galore, fans young (many smiling) and old (rosy-nosed and drinking), graffiti and 937 cans of lager. She spoke to the lovelorn. That’s a universal language. No wonder they arrived in their droves.

One more video.

Oh, and finally…

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Goodbye

Squaremile.com, a website for whom I write regular satirical pieces, is branching out into ‘funny’ video. They’ve asked me to be involved.

Here’s my first effort, based on the Seventh Seal by Ingmar Berman – and parodied in Bill & Ted.

It’s for the City of London but I hope you still get it.

Did you?

Chow

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Here’s a visual aid.

Yes it was I wot came a cropper, leading to the kind of lip enhancement most people would pay good money for.

Enough of the prelims Saul just tell us what happened

Twas an averagely breezy Sunday afternoon in rural Bedfordshire…

GET ON WITH IT

Sorry.

I was out cycling with my old friend Tim (“Pogo”). We’d just ridden up Bison Hill (“You did Bison ‘ill?” said a lady cyclist with her arm in a sling later at the hospital) and had passed Whipsonade Zoo when I make my error of judgment.

Wishing to continue a conversation about sheep or some such, I attempted a swift maneouvre onto the pavement in order to ride alongside Tim while he remained on the road.

* It was an unnecessary risk.

* I must have left my back wheel on the road.

* I didn’t make it.

I have little memory of the accident. Presently I became aware of someone groaning and spitting bloody fragments onto the pavement. That someone was me.

In the depths of my grogginess I thought the incident might make for a decent blog – it had, afterall, been a while since my previous post – so I asked Pogo to freeze frame the moment.

An ambulance arrived and took me to the world-famous Luton & Dunstable Hospital. The next day I made an emergency appointment at the dentist and began the processes of fixing the tooth I split during the incident. Meanwhile Joan at home was completely freaked out and didn’t dare touch me in case it hurt. My body and mind were constantly reminding me of the fact that I’d been in an accident.

So?

There’s something I’ve omitted to tell you.

Oh

Before I came to I experienced a vision. I was in a tunnel and saw a light – a bright light – to the right of me. It was close, very close. Everything was quiet and calm. I felt safe. This only lasted a few seconds before I began the befuddled road back to consciousness. According to Tim – whose calves I allegedly embraced as I came round – it was all I talked about for five minutes.

Since Sunday I’ve been mildly preoccupied by the tunnel and the light. Who wouldn’t be? We’re all familiar with near death tales of tunnels and lights and people observing themselves from above but these usually take place when the person is lying on the operating table, their heart having stopped, or when they’re seriously ill. All I’d done, unpleasant though it may have been, was clonk myself on the head. I came round within seconds, possibly less.

To clarify: this was not an epiphany, nor did I interpret it in religious terms. I’m simply recounting the experience.

*

I’ve spent most of the week in some degree of discomfort, principally in the mouth division which seemed to take the brunt of the fall. But I’ve made decent progress and my wounds are healing quickly.

Here’s a brief tour:

Today I had to renew my driving license photo. My battered face is thus frozen in time, or at least for the next 10 years.

And that’s it.

Nothing more to see here.

Though I do plan write something about bright lights and tunnels for the national press.

You see, every cloud..

Thank you much love,

S to the aul x

** PS Hi! If you’ve ever had a near death experience – or know someone who has – please comment below or drop me a line **