Escort Agency?

Less than six months after the picture was taken I crashed the car – wrote it off; my mum’s Escort. The impact (see the driver’s door) shattered my right femur.

Funny thing: the car I crashed into, it was almost identical - in make, type and colour - to the car I was driving: I could have ran an Escort Agency. According to the police, a lot of car-crashes are caused by blowjobs (not blow-outs). But I’ve no such excuse; I was driving my Escort alone: 'escorted', but on my own.

I spent six weeks in hospital – in traction (where, look, you could still smoke in bed). The woman smoker, Paula, she’d been traveling - pillion - on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike. Her leg was so badly smashed that they (at the time of the photo) were struggling to save it. Paula had been found in a hedge - like a rag-doll - with multiple fractures: gangrene had already infected the open-wound of her fractured tibia.
Her boyfriend lost control of the motorbike in a country lane as they were on their way to a Kate Bush concert; no other vehicles involved. A passing motorist found the boyfriend lying unconscious in the road: the paramedics, when they arrived, assumed the victim was a lone-rider. The force of the crash had thrown Paula, deep into the thick hedgerow bordering the lane, where she eventually regained consciousness, and remained - in agony - all night, and for the best part of the following day. The boyfriend didn’t regain consciousness for three days - Paula's parents were on away on holiday - and with it being a weekend, her disappearance went unnoticed. Paula might have died in that hedge - died in a hedge on the way to see Kate Bush – if it weren't for a farmer stopping his tractor, for a piss.

We used to share a smoke and a joke: she was going to see a Bush but ended-up in a hedge; and me, I’d escorted an Escort into another Escort. I was discharged before Paula; never did find out if they saved her leg.