(…)

You see, when I was told on Wednesday night he’d had the accident, I was torn. Do I go to see if he’s OK, or wait and let his family have him to themselves? Then the news emerged that his injury was critical, so I threw a few things in a bag.

As you may recall, I bought a new Fiat Panda last week. And there it was, right by the door and full of petrol. I climbed aboard, turned the key, engaged first gear, and then suddenly thought, “Hang on. This doesn’t seem right.”

And it wouldn’t have been right. Not with a product of his beloved Porsche in my garage. The Panda is a great little car and I’m coming to love it dearly, but what if he found out? It’s not even properly run in; if I raced from London to Leeds General Infirmary in it, I would effectively be saying, “I got here as fast as I could, mate, and managed 50.8mpg on the way.”

So I locked the Panda and went in the Boxster, as fast as I thought would be acceptable to a sympathetic traffic cop.

I hope this doesn’t sound in any way fatuous, because it’s not meant to. The point I’m trying to make is this. Everywhere I go, people are asking me how “The Hamster” is. As the Beatles might have said, he’s getting better all the time. Better, better, better. How much better? Well, obviously you can’t trust my opinion because, just like everyone around me, I’m not a doctor either. But here’s a sign of how much better he seems. In the next day or so I’ll be going to visit him again, and this time I really am going in the Panda. Not because I want to save fuel or preserve my licence, but because there’s no real hurry any more.

A steady 69mph cruise at 50.8mpg says I know he’ll be all right.

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