So the story about me falling off my bike merits more detail, I think. And seeing as I'm off work ill (whilst I am not unwell in the sense of feeling wretched, it is rather painful to sit on what has become the mother of all blisters) I've got some time to devote to feeling sorry for myself in written form!

Picture it: Munich, a sunny late-autumn-feeling day (even though it should still be hot at this time of year - but that's another story). I decide to pop into town rather than go straight home, but I bring the crockery I had bought on a previous day and left in the office overnight. And then, on the home straight if you will, I pull over from the end of the cycle lane and into the main flow of traffic (of which, just at that moment, there is none). And then some ARSE in the first parked car ahead of me (a small white van) decides to open his door! Just as I approach! I mean, does he HAVE eyes?

So, of course I avoid hitting the door of the van, figuring that would be way painful, but my sudden jerk to the left (because of the jerk sitting to my right, ha ha) causes me to lose balance. I have one of those time-slows-down experiences - don't you love adrenaline? - and I am in battle planning mode, seeing all the options. Or in this case, the only option, which is to land slap bang on my left arse cheek. All other manoeuvres are impossible thanks to there being a big hunk of metal between my legs.

I hit the road, bounce up and skid along. Bizarrely, there's not a scratch on my trousers and just a tiny rip in my fleece jacket. Miraculously, there's no blood or bits of bone sticking out of me. I go into autopilot, stand up, fetch my somewhat tangled bike out of the road, noting the bag of ex-crockery hanging limply from my handlebars, and head over to the pavement. It is already occurring to me how lucky I was that there were no cars or trams coming behind me just then.

The driver checks to see if I am okay, but this is complicated because he speaks no German. As luck would have it, his brother-in-law was about to get in the tram going the other way, but he jumps back out and comes over, explaining that the driver is a Croat and that he will ring his boss to come to the scene. And kindly he pops into a nearby shop to buy me some water.

And then I'm sitting there, flexing myself gently to see where the damage is, but it seems all is in working order. And then I think, oh shit what now? I rang a few people but I couldn't get hold of any close German friends who would know what to do in this situation, so then I rang Tobias from work and he suggested that I call the police. This seemed to me a little over the top, but I was a bit shaken and confused - more than usual, thanks, all you detractors out there ;o)

By this time, the driver's boss has pitched up and he's all "no, no, there's no need to call the police, but hey, just because he opened the door and you fell off your bike doesn't mean we're liable". So I'm like "hm, I think I'll call the police". When the police arrived, they laughed in his face when he suggested he wasn't liable. Which cheered me up a bit. And then, after getting the insurance company details from the boss guy, I gingerly pushed my bike home.

There wasn't really much pain at all, but the whole of my left buttock was (and still is) numb and beginning to swell. I got hold of Christian and he popped over to check on me. He's a good egg. But I didn't bother going to casualty or anything, because it didn't seem that bad. The next morning however, I was feeling decidedly groggy and a bit dazed, so Christian drove me to my doctor on his way to work.

The doctor is a lovely man, but he didn't half put the wind up me! He insisted that I go in an ambulance to the nearest hospital for X-rays. I was all for going in the tram, but he pointed out that I was dazed (even though I hadn't hit my head in the accident) and the ambulance would bring me straight to where I needed to go, without risk of getting lost or collapsing on the street. Fair enough, I thought.

But it was indeed bizarre to be strapped in to a stretcher and wheeled into the back of an ambulance van! And the worst thing was, there's NO view out because you're lying higher than the level of the windows. The second paramedic explained to me that this is deliberate, to stop passers-by peering at injured people. Which kind of makes sense, but it did make my journey even more disorienting.

At the hospital I was wheeled straight into casualty, where a nice young student doctor checked me out. The fact that I stepped off the trolley and onto the examination couch, rather than being hoisted over by the paramedics, made it clear that I wasn't that injured, but they X-rayed my hip all the same. And then it transpired that there was a dubious line on my hip joint which might have been a fracture. At which point I thought 'shit'. I didn't relish the prospect of lying in hospital for ages. I hadn't even brought a decent book!

So they sent me for an MRI scan (but I insisted on a break for lunch beforehand; it was already half past one and I was famished - which is also a good sign, I think; having no appetite generally implies a dodgy state of affairs in my body) which was itself an experience. They put ear defenders on you and sellotape your feet together, then slide you into a big plastic donut. I felt like a pizza being popped in a stone oven! Then you lie there for twenty minutes (it felt like an eternity) and the machine periodically makes deafening buzzing noises of various sorts.

Later, back in casualty, I got to look at my MRI images with the doctor. He was pleased that the fracture was in fact not a fracture but just a dodgy line on the X-ray; I was pleased that the inside of my thighs as viewed from the foot upwards bear more than a passing resemblance to Parma ham. And then I went over to Michaela's to babysit (it was parents' evening at school).

As my doctor had written me off sick until Monday, I had a chance on Friday to tidy up my flat and do a spot of shopping; apart from a HUGE lump on my arse which makes sitting a not exactly pain-free challenge, I felt much better. And the weekend was relaxed too: I headed with Christian to his parents' house in the Allgäu to plant-sit (they're on holiday in Turkey) and we went for some nice walks in the countryside around the village. It reminds me very much of Austria around there, which stands to reason in terms of the shared Alpine foothills geography.

On Monday I went back to my doctor and once again he filled me with confidence by stating that he had never in all his years of medicine seen anything quite like my arse. Great! So he sent me to a surgeon to see if they could drain it. But the surgeon said that this kind of fluid pool can't be drained because once you begin to tap it the body just keeps creating more fluid to fill the void. She told me to ice it very regularly, gave me a different cream to rub on and wrote me off sick for the rest of the week.

It's bizarre to be at home and not feeling like death. I feel a bit guilty about not working. But several people - the doctors included - have pointed out that my body needs time to deal with the aftereffects of the accident, and seeing as I can't really sit down, and what with the constant ice treatments, it would be a bit stupid of me to be in the office. Okay, I give in! I'll stay at home.