The moment you get hit by a speeding car and thrown so many feet in the air, is the moment when life as you know it, is demolished into a thousand tiny pieces. With ribs that were only good for kindling and a pelvis like a nine hundred piece jigsaw puzzle, Humpty Dumpty had nothing on me. I was broken, and as thick, frothy arterial blood began to clog the nearby drains of the gutter on that central reservation. I knew I was in deep trouble.

Dried leaves and copper smelling fluid turned my long curly hair into a swamp of sinew and death. Blood flooded into my eyes from a small head wound above my left eye brow, I say small, as compared to the rest of my injuries, this was but a mere paper cut. But now tell me, what are the chances? What are the chances that there just so happened to be a surgeon walking past that bus stop where I lay crumpled and oozing life itself onto the wet concrete outside the Barton Arms pub, as the shrieking tones of Babylon Zoo’s, Space Man, crooned out into the cold January night air? I think we all know, the chance of that occurring was slim, but there she was, just in time to stop my rich B positive blood from gushing out leaving me entirely empty and out of juice. Who was she? I’ll never know, nobody ever knew, yet there she was, in the right place at the right time. I would have died way before the ambulance arrived that night but because of her I’m here to tell you all of it and more.