O ne second I was running, a proud and gentle kind of lope, the next I was staring up at sunlight shivering through the leaves, my mouth somehow full of blood, and then everything was black. It was a warm morning as I set off, that bank holiday at the beginning of half-term, which meant my children were off school two times over and chattering around the kitchen table when my boyfriend heard – his whole face squints now as he describes it – the terrible thud of a body on concrete. It was comically small, the uneven paving stone that I tripped over, it was hilariously nothing – a centimetre or two maybe that the toe of my trainer must have caught on, but I flew somehow, quite high, and landed on my teeth and cheekbone.
I passed out because of the shock, I think, rather than the impact, and spent some time there on the grass in a glorious faint. That was the best bit. I do recommend unconsciousness.
I’m up for a light coma one day perhaps, but until then these rare moments of savage exit will have to do. The time asleep always feels longer than really it is – I was blissfully relaxed, in a theatre, in fact, watching hundreds of little children dance, until suddenly I was dragged back to life, and the path, and Mark was propping me up on his arm and saying my name too many times. I was half-carried back home, spitting out chips of teeth, and everything looked as though I was seeing it through lace.
What I was thinking at that moment was: how awful it would be if your e.
