The roof of the car has been bent down so far it’s touching the headrest and there’s a sharp crease in the metal that would rip my skull open if I moved my head the wrong way. The driver’s door has been crushed like a Coke can. It will never open again and is about a millimetre from my thigh. I’m shaking uncontrollably, but seemingly uninjured. Miraculously.

I release the seatbelt and wriggle over to the passenger seat. The left-hand side of the car is almost unscathed, like a house attached to one that’s burned down. The lorry’s momentum dragged me past the railings and I open the street-side door. On the pavement, my legs give way and I reach for the street lamp to keep myself from collapsing.

A group of passers-by have gathered to gawp. They give a small round of applause, as if I’m one of the entertainers – magicians, jugglers and clowns – who perform a few yards from here in the piazza at Covent Garden. My car is blocking one lane. A white VW Golf has pulled up behind me and a lady gets out. White blouse, blue jeans, cross-cropped hair. She runs towards me shouting, ‘Are you OK?’

I am still quivering and struggle to form words. All I can think is: how am I alive? I glance up at the cab of the lorry, expecting to see a contrite driver jumping down to see if I’m all right. But the door is shut. The setting sun glares off the window. All I can see is a dark silhouette behind the golden glass.

Why doesn’t he get out?

There is the beep beep of a large vehicle reversing. The lorry is grinding backwards.

‘Hey, arsehole!’ the lady shouts. ‘Where are you going?’

Too late. He puts the lorry into gear and starts driving south towards Whitehall.

‘Get his number plate,’ says the outraged VW lady. ‘Have you got a pen?’

I fumble in my jacket pocket, but by the time I extract my pen and notebook the lorry is vanishing around the corner.

‘That was weird,’ says Golf Lady. She takes the notebook, frowns, and starts writing uncertainly, trying to remember what she saw. ‘Almost as if he wanted to crush your car.’

A Vauxhall Astra estate in Met Police livery pulls up. This part of London, so close to Downing Street, is crawling with police.

Two officers, a woman and a man, leave the vehicle and walk to me.

‘Is this your car, sir?’ says the female officer, while her colleague walks around the other side to inspect the damage. I am beginning to feel calmer. The shakes are subsiding.

‘Yes.’

The male officer whistles through his teeth and gives me a look that says I’ve had a lucky escape. ‘Do you want an ambulance?’

‘I don’t think so. I don’t even think I’m bruised.’