Summary
THERE are, someone told me, 365 bends on the road from Arosa to Chur in east Switzerland, but not all of them are hairpin. Normally, that's the kind of fact you wouldn't pay much attention to. Only when you're speeding down it backwards with your feet above your head in the back of an ambulance does it begin to register.
The ambulance had come at ten o'clock in the morning, after the doctors had decided they couldn't sew my leg back together again and I'd need an operation. The wound was deep, right down to the bone in my left calf, and about the size of my hand. There was blood everywhere. "You should have seen it," my wife told a friend later. "It was like when Kennedy got shot."See the full content of this document
Extract
Swiss Near Miss
By which, I think, she meant that she kept getting flashbacks to that day in Arosa, the way Jackie K must have always remembered what happened in Dallas. The way it would have come out of the blue for both of them: him in his motorcade, me walking across the hotel terrace to look at an outdoor model railway. Oh yes, hotel manager Urs assured me, probably Europe's highes...
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