When I was four or five years old, my mum and my sister had gone out, leaving me and my dad alone in the house. Discussing what we were going to do for the day, we arrived at the idea of gardening. Remembering that there were some packets of bulbs on the shelf in the garage, I rushed off eagerly to procure them.

Now, I wasn't very tall when I was four, and couldn't reach the shelf of my own accord. However, we had just had a new toilet fitted, and the old one had found a temporary home in the garage - just under the shelf. Ever resourceful, I climbed onto the seat.

I could now reach the shelf, but was unable to locate the bulbs. I needed a better view, so taking hold of the shelf with both hands lifted myself into the air. With hindsight, I can see that this was a bad idea. Unable to maintain my grasp, I dropped from my tenuous position and fell back onto the toilet. Which smashed.

From that point on, what I remember most is large amounts of blood. I remember lying among a million tiny pieces of porcelain, with a rather large tear in my leg. I remember lying on the sofa as dad rushed off to call the doctor. I remember being lifted into the back of the doctor's car. But mostly I remember the blood.

My leg was in plaster for some time. I had just started school, and I didn't like it much, and this was an excellent opportunity to have some time off. I was also going to speech therapy at this time, because I hadn't quite mastered the art of talking, and I liked speech therapy because you got presents. Strangely, my injured leg, though sufficiently obstructive that I felt unable to attend school, didn't prevent me from going to speech therapy.

My leg recovered eventually, and all I have to show for it today is a long row of stitches down my right leg.

I can talk now, too.

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