Apologies for the lack of posts here of late. Life’s just been rolling along nicely without any particularly noteworthy incidents. Last week was shaping up to be a little more exciting: Ash and I were over in Edinburgh for drinks a couple of times, and on Thursday night I was looking forward to a brisk cycle along to Musselburgh for a leaving do. My (new boss) Malcolm explained how to get to Portobello promenade so I could cycle most of the way to my (old boss) Gordon’s place without the chore of dodging traffic. I found his house on the banks of the Esk, and after locking the bike up behind it, climbed the back stairs and gladly accepted a beer.

The rest of the team filtered in gradually. We ate Gordon’s excellent chilli and various pies of savoury, sweet and occasionally indeterminate disposition; I talked with authority to Gordon’s son Jamie about Doctor Who, and knocked back a few glasses of wine over the course of the evening.

About 11.30pm I was starting to flag; I was feeling a bit knackered and knew I still had 6 miles or so to cycle back to Jeff & Devon’s where I was staying that night. I weighed up how much I’d had to drink and decided I should be okay, cushioned as it was by a fair amount of food. (Gordon and Dave both said later, unprompted, that they wouldn’t have let me go if they’d thought I was incapable.) I said my goodbyes, unlocked the bike, found my way back to the Edinburgh Road and got into my stride a few minutes before midnight.

The road was dead quiet; a few cars passed me going the other way, but other than that it was quiet. I was coming up on the “Welcome to Edinburgh” sign, the prom only a half mile further on or so, when suddenly—and I really mean without warning—the bike disappeared out from under me and I hit the road. I don’t really recall the impact itself.

Over the next short while, a number of things occurred. That is to say I did those things, but I don’t have much memory of willing them to happen or of actually carrying them out. I levered myself off the road in a quite serious amount of pain, and hopped around whimpering for a bit. My bag (one of those single-shoulder, messenger-type ones) was sort of wrapped around me, and I managed to get it off. How, I don’t know, because the next thing I did was to check my right arm, clutched by then in my left hand.

I waggled the fingers. They seemed to work. They felt a bit numb.

I let go with my left hand. My right arm dangled. There’s no other word for it. I tried to move the elbow, and the forearm flopped around in a worryingly unconstrained manner, accompanied by a sort of internal grinding sensation. I gasped. I couldn’t believe it.

Right arm cradled slightly against my body, I lugged the bike just about off the road, giving up when the kerb got in the way and the pain got too intense. I collapsed against a wall at the edge of the pavement and rested my right arm against my leg.

I sat there, teeth gritted, for a minute or so. Two or three cars went passed and I tried to wave them down with my left arm, but each and every one of them carried on. Indignant, I managed to get my phone out (I can’t imagine how bad things would have been if it had been broken in the fall) and dialled 999 for the first time in my life. Somehow I always imagined it would have been for someone else.

The operator answered quickly and I told them what happened, and where I was. I remember being as polite as possible, and surprising myself at how calm I was. They didn’t mention how long it would be, but I must have looked at the clock on my phone because I have a vague recollection that it was around 12.15am.

I waited. My right arm felt slightly warm, and very painful.

Time passed. A group of three guys walked past on the far side of the road, took one look at my tangled bike, pained face and gammy arm, and kept on walking. Fuck you, I thought. A bit later another guy was walking past, on the phone to someone.

“Are you alright mate?” he asked.

“No, not really. But the ambulance is on its way so it’s okay.”

“Fair enough,” he replied.

Oddly, I wasn’t too bothered that he carried on: I didn’t really know what he could have done, and the fact that he asked at all mollified me a bit.

The ambulance did in fact arrive shortly after that. My God, what a welcome sight. The paramedics tied a sling around my arm, helped me to my feet and into the ambulance and onto the trolley in the back. They told me their names—Lynn and Kevin—and I decided to try to remember the names of all the people I might meet during the course of the night from now on.

“Hi Lynn, hi Kevin. How’s your night going? Mine pretty much sucks.”

Lynn went to the cab to radio the hospital, while Kevin helped me peel off my cycling glove and then, more dauntingly, my jacket. It went reasonably well. Then we noticed the blood which had been dripping down inside the waterproof arm of the jacket and onto the crotch of my jeans. He grabbed a radio mic or a dictation mic—I don’t remember which—and rattled off the symptoms.

“30-year old male, fell off his bike. Right elbow is bruised. I can see one puncture wound roughly a centimetre in size, and another smaller one. There is some—” (here he paused to pick the right word) “—deformation.”

“A puncture wound?” I asked. “Why would I have a puncture wound?”

Kevin looked at me.

“Oh, right. I see.”

“We can’t give you any drugs, unfortunately. They’ll do that at the hospital. We can give you air and gas,” he offered.

“What’s that?”

“We give it to pregnant women. It won’t ease the pain but it might take your mind off things.”

“Oh, yeah. What is it again? NO2? Screw it, if it doesn’t ease the pain, don’t bother. I’ll survive.”

We drove off to the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, lights flashing.