After a few days off for the holidays, my year began as the previous had ended: with daily sessions of physiotherapy. I swatched Pantone swatches to NASA-engineered machines which helped me gain muscle and flexibility in my flashy new titanium knee. As the weeks went by, I went from a wheelchair to a pair of crutches and then eventually down to a single crutch. These little improvements kept me powering on through the monotony and discomfort.

Something else which kept me afloat was the social aspect of physiotherapy. During my daily ambulance journeys I got talking to both drivers and fellow patients, one of whom was Fernando. As we were both admitted around the same time and had the same time slot, we’d often coincide in the ambulance or on the machines, which meant we wound up chatting a lot. His company turned a rather dreary daily routine into something much more appealing.

I was also lucky to enjoy the company of my dad, who came for a visit and to join me as I began to manage the odd trip out of my flat on my crutches — even if every little task seemed to take an eternity. My mum also flew back over, which was a lovely chance for us to actually enjoy some time together rather than her just having to act as my full-time carer.

As the weeks turned to months, the end was in sight for my recovery. I was managing to do more and more things independently, including hop down the stairs to the street for the odd special outing. I honestly think I nearly cried the first time I managed to take the rubbish out by myself, and not just because of the pain…