I'd twisted or broken my foot in Barrow-in-Furness, having got up too fast from a hotel chair and fallen down. Digby Fairweather, my bandleader, was with me. My wife Diana - the Wing Co - had insisted, after my last debacle, that I am always accompanied. I managed to get up unaided but, suffering from public-school ethos, masked my pain behind a Cheshire cat-like grin and allowed Digby to help me undress and get into bed. I wished him goodnight and then spent the most agonising night of my life. The foot throbbed and stabbed, and an occasional cigarette did nothing to distract me.

Come the dawn, I rang Digby and he gave me two Samson-strong painkillers, which allowed me to sleep most of the way behind our drummer-cum-chauffeur, Nick, who drives as steadily as one of those dummies they strap in to test the impact on a new auto. Thanks to Samson and my little chum, Pro-Plus, the caffeine fairy, it was a good gig and Nick, the indefatigable, drove me home and then back to his house in the Midlands.

Next day I taxied to my local hospital, almost my country seat, St Mary's. I already had three previous appointments booked there and thought I'd do them all in a few hours. Wrong! One task on my list was to have my foot x-rayed, which I thought I could combine with a chest scan. Impossible! Different departments! For my foot, I had to go to the "emergency ward". I was there for five hours. The scan took 10 minutes, but there was no question of doing anything else. Apart from the emergency ward, everything closed down at 5.30pm. They didn't think the foot was broken, which was a relief. I went home whacked again, had a stiff Irish whiskey and the Wing Co brought me up my supper the way naval officers in my time served the lower deck their dinner on Christmas Day.