SOMETIMES it seems that I am engaged in a competition with myself to see if I can have an accident which is simultaneously unbelievable and unnecessary, and yet could only happen to me.

One contender is the time I bruised my coccyx while attempting to assist a fellow passenger’s exit from my bus. I stood up to let her out just as the bus went over a humpback bridge, was knocked off my feet, and sat down on the floor unexpectedly and forcefully.

Another is the time I attempted to ride a junior motorcycle at a fair in Welshpool. As I pulled back on the throttle, the bike sped out from between my legs. In a panic, I maintained my grip on the handlebars, increasing acceleration, until the bike pulled me through the air and into the crash barrier.

Up to now, the unquestioned leading contender is the occasion on which I was in Matalan and distracted by my phone, which meant that I did not see the oncoming woman in the mobility scooter, who crashed into me, knocking me into a spinner rack of bras.

However I was not physically injured in that altercation with an electric vehicle. I was a little scuffed, yes, and my sleeve became attached to a hook, and I now have an aversion to doilies, but the only thing that was hurt was the last few dregs of my pride.

You don’t have to have a PhD in narrative studies to realise that this is leading up to the news that I have a new contender for the top spot.

I was going to visit my brother in hospital, but I could not turn up empty handed. I needed to buy a get well soon card.

I should say at this point that I am not sure about get well soon cards as a concept. They seem like an added pressure on people who are already struggling. “Stop malingering, you lazy article. Get well soon. Don’t stretch it out, I’m on a clock.”

But the alternative was to look as if I were totally OK with him not being well, and so a get well soon card was the lesser of two evils.