I just watched my friend, James Cracknell, on TV. The documentary of his achievements so far was intertwined with the story of  his brain injury sustained in an horrific bike crash in 2010. 

There was footage in the programme of the crash scene. 
His bike laying on its side. 
His bloodied and battered cycle helmet lying in the road. 
His blood stained cycling shirt, cut off his body by the helicopter paramedics. 
They cut to his wife, Bev, telling of the phone call, saying he’d been in a serious crash and that  she’d have to catch the next plane out of London 
The parallels of the situation, James and I , Bev and Dani, next door neighbours, hit me really hard, lying here tonight, irreparably damaged goods. 
Bev and Dani are left with the legacy of two husbands and fathers, almost killed, never the same again. 
It wasn’t until I saw Bev on the TV giving her account, 3 years on, with that unmistakeable look of horror still etched in her eyes, that I can imagine how my own wife felt hearing the news, by phone, on June 15th 2013. 
Dani, I’m so sorry for putting you through that. 

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