It was an early start. Who decided that it was a good idea for the clocks to be moved forward an hour? But at least the BBC had booked me a cab to get me up to the studio in central London to review the newspapers on a Sunday.
And as is usually the way I got talking with the cab driver. And what a conversation it was.
We begin with the usual pleasantries. I ask how long he'd been driving for?
'Five years,' he tells me.
'And what did you do before that?'
'I was a carpenter, but my wife got ill and I needed to find a steady job to support us, so I became a driver.'
Sometimes speaking to someone you don't know is hugely helpful especially if, perhaps, that person is wearing a dog collar on the way to a radio studio.
'How is she now?' I ask.
'A lot better, she had a cardiac arrest very young. I had to do the kiss of life. She was in a coma for four weeks. She's OK, but not quite the same as she was. I notice small differences.'
It is about now I need to declare an interest. My own dear wife had a brain haemorrhage 15 years ago while running the London marathon. It was touch and go. The recovery was slow. It became obvious that Pete (the driver) and I shared a very difficult experience. And what's more, we both had young children at the time when their mums became so ill.
'How was it for you and family at the time?' I ask.
'It was terrible, you just have to keep going.'
And then I ask a question that has been much on my mind of late.
'How has this changed you and your family?'
Pete's answer is so true and so resonant for me that I feel almost unable to speak.
'After something like this you never take anything for granted again. I now am just happy every day that my wife is still alive and that I haven't had to bring the children up alone. I thank God that her time hadn't come and that we still all have each other. I'm not interested in big things or ambition or anything, I am just happy that she survived.'
For 15 years I have wondered about the impact of our big life or death moment. I have fretted about the impact on the children. But in Pete's words I realise exactly that this is the way I feel too. Perhaps everyone who has gone through this kind of thing – not their own near-death experience, but that of a loved one – feels the same.
As I leave the cab I reach over and shake Pete's hand.
'Thanks Rev,' he says.
'Bless you and your family,' I reply.
Rev Steve Morris is the parish priest of St Cuthbert's North Wembley. Before being a priest he was a writer and ran a brand agency. In the 1980s he tried to become a pop star. Follow him on Twitter @SteveMorris214
