Last Wednesday I was cycling into work with a bag slung over the handlebars. I was going at a fair clip when the bag swung into the wheel, got jammed, and I sailed over the front of the bike to land head first on the tarmac.

At least that was what the man in the ambulance said happened; my helmet had not saved me from knocking myself out so I remember nothing.

By mid-afternoon I was home from hospital with an impressive black eye, a grazed face and a not-particularly-painful broken wrist, but otherwise in reasonable form. The only permanent damage was to my shirt, which had to be cut off me.

Obviously it was stupid to cycle with anything on the handlebars. Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I will learn from my own mistakes and start using a pannier.

But that is not the moral of this tale. On Tuesday morning I am being interviewed for a job as a non-executive director.

I am due to present myself at a smart office in central London and try to convince a company chairman that I am just the sort of person he would like around his boardroom table – razor sharp on strategy, wise on risk and great at asking pertinent questions.

I have just examined myself in the mirror, and studied the closed eye, the purple pouches, the weeping red grazes, the clumping arm in a sling and thought: would I hire this woman? An answer presented itself at once: no.

A brief Google search assures me that when it comes to creating a bad impression at a job interview a black eye is worse than turning up late, sweating profusely and wearing a nose ring.

Equally, according to a study by the University of Iowa the single most important thing at interview – especially for women – is a firm handshake. My right hand, with its blue-black fingers poking out of an already grubby plaster, won’t be shaking any hands at all.

So here’s the question. Do I postpone?

My instinct tells me to go ahead. I can hold a conversation as well as I ever could. I can rise above looking like a hideous old witch – doing so is a test of character. And I do not cancel appointments. The first sign of professionalism is punctuality and not messing people around by cancelling and rescheduling.

Yet 24 hours after the accident, I stopped being quite so sure. Passengers on the train averted their gaze. Arriving in the office I must have looked so feeble that the security guard put his arms around me and kissed me.

Abusive pavement

A colleague told me not to consider going. You cannot pass yourself off as a powerful woman when you look like a victim of domestic abuse. It might be sexist, she explained, but it’s a fact: a man with a mashed-up face looks tough, while a woman looks like a beaten wife. Whatever story I told about a bike and a bag, a stranger would always suspect an abusive partner, not an abusive pavement.

The only way of salvaging the situation, she said, was a dashing eye patch and a power suit. When I pointed out that you can’t wear a power suit with your arm in plaster, she suggested a cape instead.

I don’t think she gets it: I am interviewing for a role on a corporate board not for a part in a Lord Nelson pantomime. And, despite her warnings, I am going anyway.

Milking it

Were it not for the non-exec interview and the black eye, I would be feeling pretty pleased with myself. When I was about 10 I had a morbid desire for a broken bone in a plaster cast, as it got people off gym and seemed to earn them an unreasonable amount of sympathy.

Several decades later, I have got what I wanted, and it is even better than I thought it would be. There are flowers, offers to go out and buy food; I have even been thanked for going on doing my job.

I think of all the times when I have been in a far worse state at work: from insomnia, anxiety, insecurity or even depression. No one could see the injury; they just wished I wasn’t so moody.

The only drawback to a plaster cast is that you are endlessly asked to explain yourself. So far I have learnt three things.

First, cyclists see me as a hero, non-cyclists as a fool. Second, saying “bike accident” beats having to explain (as two colleagues have recently) that you fell off high heels or injured yourself on a bouncy castle.

Finally, it is best to keep the explanation short and not to volunteer that it was my fault. I will be hoping to adhere to this particularly on Tuesday. Even if the chairman represses his suspicions about my being a battered wife, he might not wish to hire someone to assess corporate risk who has made such a hash of managing her own corporal one.

– (Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2015)