I apologise for my unexplained absence from this page for the past two weeks. This was occasioned not, as might be supposed, by my having headed off in search of summer sunshine but by circumstances that could adequately have been summed up by an adaptation of the phrase that used to appear all too often on the page of the Spectator where Jeffrey Bernard's Low Life column ought to have been: "Christopher Gray is unwell".

I had injured my leg and was in the John Radcliffe Hospital for three days and then recuperating at home. But before describing what happened, I must mention an odd coincidence that occurred more than 25 years ago on my first brief stay at the JR. As it happens, this involves Mr Bernard.

I was lying in bed on a Friday morning, with the Speccie open before me. Low Life, I found, offered an account of Jeffrey's latest spell in hospital. Reading on, I suddenly noticed he was describing the very scene I was enjoying (if that's the word) through the ward windows - ranks of houses with identical rows of flowering runner beans in the foreground; tell-tale Dreaming Spires away in the distance. "Has a Mr Jeffrey Bernard been in this hospital, do you know?" I asked one of the doctors (I suppose I would have said "Jeff bin in?" had the joke been current). Not only had he been in, but been in the very bed I was occupying. I thought this passing strange . . .

My recent admission to hospital occurred as a consequence of an accident in my home at the end of a sunny Sunday. I hope a brief description will save others from the same stupidity.

With warm breezes blowing around the house, I had thrown wide the doors and windows for ventilation. The place had been shut up for more than two weeks while I was on holiday, and a certain mustiness had developed. The open doors included the only one that had not been replaced during a recent renovation. I don't use it often as the frame is sometimes a bit damp and it can be hard to close.

It proved hard to close on this balmy evening, and I judged that the bottom of the frame could do with a bit of help from my foot. This method of closure is not a good idea with a glass door at any time, and certainly not when one is wearing slippery-soled Greek leather sandals and shorts. As I held on to the handle and pushed at the frame beneath, my right foot shot from the painted wood and straight through the glass panel at the bottom the door.

Fortunately, I was not alone. Rosemarie heard the shattering noise. She knew at once what had happened, and turned to find me stuck amid the shards of glass. There were cuts to the front and back of my leg, and a deep wound to my calf. There was blood everywhere.

A 999 call brought a car-borne paramedic within minutes. Even as he took stock of the situation, an ambulance crew arrived to rush me to the John Radcliffe Hospital. Once an examination had established that I was not at serious risk, and X-rays had been taken, I was left to wait my turn in the accident and emergency department. It took about four hours before I was seen by a doctor (this is not a complaint, incidentally, since I know, of course, why there must often be such delays). After some painful prodding, the punctured calf was judged too serious to be dealt with there and then. I was wheeled off through wide and empty corridors to a ward in the hospital's spanking new West Wing, there to await the attentions of doctors specialising in plastic and reconstructive surgery.

During Monday, it was decided that I required a longer operation than could be comfortably (for me!) carried out under local anaesthetic. So from late that night began the regime of 'nil by mouth' and saline drip that precedes 'a general'. In the event, when I was visited the next morning by the consultant anaesthetist, it was concluded that the operation could satisfactorily be performed with my pain deadened by means of an epidural.

The way this decision was reached, with my being given final say in the matter, seemed to me admirable. Indeed, everything about my experience at the JR proved a heart-warming demonstration of the strengths of the NHS. Staff at all levels were courteous, caring and utterly professional, even under certain provoking situations that I witnessed. I even enjoyed the food - well, just slightly. The fresh-brewed tea was first-class.

The operation proved as painless as I was promised it would be. (I realise now why Caesarean sections are so popular with some mothers.) I chatted throughout to one of the team surrounding me on the operating table. Stitched and bandaged in less than an hour, I was back on the ward for another overnight stay before being sent on my way on crutches the following lunchtime.

My hospital bed throughout my stay had been on the first floor of the block pictured above. It overlooked the helipad which saw a number of emergency arrivals during the three days. A hedge obscured my view of Headington Cemetery, with all the intimations of mortality this might have afforded. Indeed, until I dug out Damian Halliwell's aerial photograph, I had no idea this macabre scene was so close at hand.