Where do I begin? The moment Cesar shied and jumped sideways catching me unawares, making me skid face down into the stones of my drive?

The excruciating realisation that something was broken in my leg? Or that I couldn’t even crawl and had to try to shuffle, dragging my leg, screaming in pain and passing out every so often?

The night and half a day I lay on the tiles, unable to reach the phone, until found by Ian, who had taken a fancy to check out the swimming pool on a Sunday? I could pile on the misery and truly I am in the depths of it, but what is the point?

A chunk of my tibia broke off. At first I was plastered from groin to toes but within two days I was being operated upon and I now have a plate and several pins holding it together.

I am writing this in my hospital bed in Moissac, six days after the fall, and just two since my operation. I’ve already has two physio sessions but now I have to have ultrasound in case the hellish pain in my shoulder is caused by a snapped tendon. Oh, and I’ve just been told I’ll also be going for an ultrasound to see if I have a blood clot in the calf.

Forgive me if I take a moment out for a semi-bitter laugh and a wry look up to the gods, who take pleasure in screwing us up when all is going well.

Every day for the past couple of months as I’ve delighted again in walking the country lanes, a pup by my side, I’ve taken a moment out to give thanks, to look to the heavens and say out loud, "Thank you, God. Really. Thank you for giving me all this."

You’ve had a flavour of that gratitude in my columns; the return to health after the last few years, finally doing something about my lungs and, glory be, ditching the fags. (And no, I haven’t once wanted to reach for one in the last few days. Mind you, being France, I can sit in bed and puff away on my e-cig. Going into the operating theatre I didn’t realise I was still clutching one until it was prised from my hand and returned afterwards.)

But more important, in a way, was the gradual altering of the mental state that had often taken me to dark places of the soul. Life had finally become simplified and joy had returned in place of a ticking countdown.

And then, a momentary lapse of concentration, a frightened and large pup, unaware of his bulk and strength, and the world kicked me back.

Three years ago I broke first my foot and then, when in plaster, the fibia on my other leg. It was the first time I’d ever been entirely dependent on others and also the first intimation of mortality. You lived those months and the shaky aftermath with me and we don’t need to revisit them.

Then, friends here rallied round, two in particular, to an extraordinary extent, putting me to bed night after night, getting me up in the morning and sorting my life in between. I shall be forever in their debt for that but I cannot and do not expect such help again.

There is, I know, a feeling that this time I have brought it entirely upon myself so any sympathy has a rider attached. I should not have got Cesar, certainly not a male puppy, and certainly not an Afghan. Indeed, I’ve said so myself.

But I will not be told to rehome my dog or give him away. Nobody has or needs my power of attorney and I am still more than mentally capable of making my own decisions, however insane they may seem to others. And yes, if need be, pay for them.

So, when a place is found at a rehabilitation centre, I will leave here and spend three weeks there. It will be three months before I can put weight on the leg and another month or so before I can walk with any confidence.

For the moment Cesar is in kennels and now that I’ve got a dongle for the Mac I’m on the internet searching for a temporary foster home for him. Or some other solution. But, I repeat, a temporary solution.

As to how I will cope – well, I’ll take that a step, literally, at a time.

The rural French do not understand when family cannot take care of their own. It is what they do and we no longer do. But then most are living where they were born with the whole family, including cousins, close by. In our villages, all are intertwined through birth or marriage. There is a natural rota involved that no lone son or daughter holding down a high-performance job in a city far away can hope to emulate, however willing.

Anyway, as usual it’s onwards and upwards. Today I’ve had three hours without any pain. I’m back online. And almost on form. I just asked the bitch from hell – there's one in every workplace – if it's me or the effing world that's her problem.