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I never saw how they solved the conundrum of getting me over the gear-stick. As my head was drawn forward I passed out. The heroes in the orange suits somehow got me on to the tarmac, where a new thought invaded my mind: Stupid selfish fool if I can’t walk when my baby is born …

‘Hello, can you hear me? My name is Anika. You will feel something in your arm, OK?’

‘OK.’

The army medical training rotated in my subconscious. A chest wound typically involves air in the lung cavity. Lightness of breath … you hear the blood rattle on the lungs … signs the lining has been breached … If things start to go wrong it can happen fast, you need to act quickly to perform a lumbar puncture …

To my relief, no one ran at me with an eight-inch needle to punch a hole through my ribcage, yet every breath felt like a belt was being ratcheted around my chest. Anything was better than this. The stabbing in my spine refused to be ignored. I focused on staying calm. I couldn’t move my legs.

I was taken to Romanian A&E on the orange plank. My back wasn’t damaged; I’d snapped four ribs very close to my spine. Once the shock and swelling calmed down, I could move my limbs. The Romanian medics were fantastic, especially the doctor who allayed my worst fears. But there were a couple of unexpected challenges. The first was that to call for food or any kind of help I had to reach a button on the wall two metres behind my head. The second manifested itself the following morning …

Two very butch mamas bowled up, dressed like cleaning ladies. One was Rosa Klebb and her mate was an Olympic shot-putter. They were gesticulating furiously and muttering what sounded suspiciously like, ‘Il presidente, bloshloka, bretishlokkka!’

Their frenetic gesturing and vice-like grip on my arms suggested I was about to evacuate my rather posh room whether I liked it or not. Bearing in mind that the biggest movement I had managed until this point was to turn my head from one side to the other, standing up would be easier said than done.

I fended Klebb away from my left arm and begged for time from the Olympian. Perhaps I could slide off the right-hand side of the bed. I motioned to the right.

JEEEEEESSSSSS … NO WAY.

Left, then.

Gripping the sheets with my right hand, I clawed forward with a series of snail-like movements and banshee cries to bring myself upright. The mamas clicked their fingers impatiently. My feet couldn’t reach the floor and pleading my case for them to lower me down got me nowhere. I had to jump.

I exercised every millimetre of my butt cheeks to slide as close to the floor as humanly possible. Then a muscle I never knew existed – and I suddenly wished it didn’t – tautened across my ribs. I plummeted involuntarily off the bed and landed uncertainly on my feet. The spasm lancing through my back sent dominoes of fire tumbling around my body. My legs buckled and I managed something between a whimper and a groan. The mamas looked on unmoved as I took my first faltering steps into what I hoped might turn out to be a friendlier world.

Klebb wasn’t leaving anything to chance; she led me out of the room by my elbow. It seemed that my private room, complete with TV, was reserved for the Romanian President. She marched me along the corridor in search of more modest accommodation at triple my speed limit. One look at the wards confirmed that whatever state I was in, I was better off making a run for it and flying back to England.

I rang my old man. He’d been following my progress and we had an unusually long chat.

‘As long as you’re OK. What a shame, though. How bad’s the car?’

‘It’s FUBAR. Could you pick me up from the airport? I’ve seen enough of this place.’

‘Of course. I’ll see you in the morning.’ He paused. ‘Love you, Son.’

I rang Georgie next to let her know I was coming home. A pregnant lady had enough to worry about, so I lied about my injury.

‘Are you sure you’re OK? What aren’t you telling me?’

‘I’m just annoyed about the busted car. See you