We were heading into town - myself in the driving seat, my better half next to me, two of my step-daughters, and my middle daughter in the back - to grab some lunch. The windows were down, because the aircon had packed up in my ageing Vauxhall Zafira, following its MOT in April.
My daughter had just noticed that the local comic shop had a PokéStop attached to it. We were stationary in traffic, waiting for the lights to change - the same lights I'd sat at thousands of times.
I was talking about how I felt guilty that I hadn't been in the shop for over five years, after I started buying my comics online, and how she could forget it if she thought I was going in there to look for Squirtles...
And that's when some guy decided to launch himself through the window at me.
The weird thing is, though I was on the receiving end of the physical side of it, the attack really happened to everyone else around me.
I never saw him coming, never really saw him afterwards - beyond a glimpse of him running away. There had been no warning, no run-up to it.
There's that split-second after something hits you in the head, when you're momentarily dazed, seeing stars, bewildered. I've been punched before, when I was a kid, more times than I'd really like to recall. Nothing like this though.
My first cognisant thought was that I'd been hit in the face with a football; that was the closest comparison I could draw. Albeit a massive football made of concrete.
But when I heard everyone in the car freaking out, and saw the blood pouring into my lap, and people getting out of their cars around us, I thought we must've been hit by another vehicle.
Apparently the noise of the guy's fist hitting my face was so loud that my partner thought the same; that a car had blindsided us, or we'd been clipped by a motorbike. Or maybe he had hit me with something he had in his hand; we heard a few conflicting statements about exactly what he did.
It was only when my step-daughter started shrieking "Why did he do that? Why did he do that?", that I realised I'd probably been assaulted, as difficult to comprehend as that was.
I reached my hand behind me to try and calm my her down, and assure her I was ok... which only made matters worse, unfortunately; my hand was dripping with blood. It was like when I had my wisdom teeth removed, and was left in the recovery room with a little girl who was sobbing.
Drowsy and drugged up as I was, I looked over at her and smiled, to try and make her feel better, slurring "It'lll beeeee okaaaaaay...". She started screaming the place down. When I got in my dad's car later, I discovered why she'd panicked: my teeth and lips were covered in dried blood. I looked like I'd been eating someone.
My partner, because she is a brave and heroic and reckless lunatic, who cares a little too much, ran immediately after the guy, chasing him in her flip-flops to a nearby park, and risking her own safety by grabbing his arm, at one point.
"I don't know what you're talking about - I don't know you," he barked at her, as if he hadn't just punched a complete stranger in the face.
She said he didn't seem phased by what he'd done, didn't particularly seem as if he was drugged-up... just carried on listening to his iPod, and jogging away. She says he was built like a mountain range, with arms like doner kebab skewers, and has since speculated that he was suffering 'roid rage'.
Unfortunately - or fortunately, from the point of view of all of us who'd rather she didn't get attacked by a muscular psychopath in her quest for justice - her flip-flops let her down, and he got away. She eventually got to go on an exciting ride in a police van to search for him, but he'd gone. CID are on the case now, and checking CCTV. Inevitably, the camera nearest to us at the time of the attack wasn't working. They haven't found him yet.
Witnesses described him running down the middle of the street - the woman in the car behind had seen him in her rear-view mirror, and wound up her window, just in case - before leaping through the air and bringing his fist down onto me. This is all second hand, of course. I saw none of it. I'd been looking straight ahead.
While my partner was off playing vigilante, I was being tended to by a couple of very lovely ladies who'd gotten out of their own cars. They helped me park, and they washed the cut above my eye. They were amazing, despite being clearly in shock themselves.
Police turned up within five minutes - and cleaned my wounds properly - the ambulance arriving a few minutes after that, giving me a more thorough examination.
All of it seemed so surreal, like it wasn't really happening to me. Why would I need an ambulance?! Why were the police there?! Where was all the blood coming from?
Quite coincidentally, and only adding to the dream-like events that were unfolding, my brother-in-law happened to be passing by - and he was able to take my car and the kids back home, as well as fetch my glasses for me; I'd been wearing my contact lenses when I got punched.
The thing I wasn't telling everyone, because I didn't want to worry them, was that I couldn't see out of my right eye. I could open it fine, but it was just whiteness. Like this thickest fog you could imagine.
I remember one Christmas, many, many years ago, visiting my aunt and uncle's house, when my uncle - who had gone blind in his 40s, from diabetes - described his sight to my mum. He said he could tell bright and dark tones, but not see anything specific. He was sat next to a Christmas tree, and told her that he could "tell his eyes were almost being poked out by the fairy lights", but couldn't pick out any detail. That's how I've always understood blindness; not blackness, but whiteness. That's what I was experiencing.
Contemplating being blind was the closest I got to being scared yesterday - thankfully, until it wore off about four hours later, the adrenaline took care of any other feelings. I chatted happily with one of the police officers about Star Wars - I was wearing the same Rebel Alliance t-shirt I had on when I got my photo taken with Mark Hamill last weekend (it's now covered in blood, obviously) - and making stupid jokes.
In some respects it was all rather exciting. I got my first ever ride in an ambulance, and I knew I was going to have a black eye. As a kid, I always wanted a black eye and a broken arm - thanks to having these injuries somewhat romanticised by The Beano. In the past 12 months I've had both, and can now tick them off the bucket list.
I got very well looked after by my local hospital - bless the NHS, once again - before getting transferred to Moorfields. Slowly, my sight improved a little over the course of the day. The blurry vision and pressure in my eye was down to internal bleeding, and they're hopeful that there won't be any permanent damage. We'll find out more when I go back tomorrow.
Right now, it's like looking through an incredibly dirty window.
When I've written on here about personal events, it has tended to be with a degree of hindsight, when I've got the benefit of distance and perspective to understand what something means. I don't always write about what I'm feeling in the here-and-now. Gut reactions can rarely be trusted.
When I was foolishly training to be a psychotherapist a few years ago, we learned that some counsellors will refuse to take on clients who are in love.
Being in love floods your body with chemicals that can send your judgement and emotions out of whack. Being physically assaulted does something similar.
I'm aware enough to know that I might still be in shock right now, but... I don't think so. I think I passed that point yesterday, when my fight or flight wore off while I was having my eye examined, and I started trembling.
When I was bullied at school, or harassed online, the resulting damage came from it feeling personal. I felt targeted. I never saw the person who did this. It was an utterly random attack. There was nothing personal about it. I may as well have been hit by a tree or a falling chimney.
Once again, I'm so sorry I won't be able to make it to Retro Revival on Saturday. It's an absolute pisser, and I feel terrible for letting down the lovely guys who asked me along.
I put up the message yesterday because I felt it better to tell people sooner rather than later that I wouldn't be attending. Maybe I'm naïve, but it wasn't an attempt to get sympathy, and I was completely unprepared for the wave of love and generosity which washed my way.
I started off trying to reply to all of you individually on Twitter, Facebook and on here... but it became impossible in the end. Just know that I read every message, appreciated every message more than I can express, and that every single message I received felt like the virtual hug that it was intended to be.
Honestly, between your sentiments, texts and emails from friends and family, and the kindness of the police, of the ambulance service, the nurses and doctors at the hospitals, and the passers-by who looked after me, and the Uber driver who brought me home from hospital, I lay in bed last night feeling terribly guilty, that I didn't deserve it all. Why would I be getting all this?! Surely other people need it more than I do?!?
We only have to read a newspaper to know that people suffer far worse than I did. I'm lucky he didn't have a knife or a gun (as is my ridiculously wonderful fiancée, Sanya: the idiot), or that he didn't go for one of the kids (even though they all remain shaken up).
This isn't meant to read as some sort of false modesty, or a way to generate sympathy by going "Oh, don't worry about me... I'm fiiiiiine... No, really I am <SOB>".
I mean it. I am lucky. I am blessed. I am a fortunate bastard. And contrary to yesterday making me feel more unsafe, it demonstrated that the world IS a good place. For every mental, for every radicalised lunatic, or broken, violent, soul, or drug-addled crazy, there are a thousand good, kind, decent, people.
The world has felt so broken and wrong and out of kilter for so much of 2016. Yesterday proved to me that it isn't anything of the sort. Thank you.