The Lost Midweek
Don't you hate it when you visit your GP about some minor symptoms on your way to the supermarket and within 20 minutes you're in hospital wired up to those beeping machines so familiar to us from TV programmes?
This was what happened to me this week.
The NHS now has a policy of reacting to any symptoms that might indicate a heart problem as an imminent heart attack. As someone who has a general 'just in case' approach to life, I find this quite admirable although it's a little alarming if you are on the receiving end of the policy.
My father sat with me in the A & E cubicle. Like many elderly people he watches 'Countdown' in the afternoons. I glanced at the clock and said to him "You're missing Countdown."
"Not necessarily", he replied. "This might be Countdown for you."
I thought the dour Scandinavian male nurse looked disapproving at this black humour whilst I had a delayed reaction to this joke and started laughing during my chest X-Ray which probably skewed the results.
Whilst the man who I at first thought was a porter but who I now profoundly hope was a nurse was injecting me in the stomach, I was thinking: "I can probably get two or three blog posts out of this...... assuming I don't snuff it. And if the latter happens, then my readers will be spared all those 'just a little prick' jokes."
Well, dear readers, you won't be spared because I was, for now anyway.
And yesterday afternoon brought the joy of a blond male nurse standing by my bed with my discharge in his hand.
(If you can identify which Peter Nichols play that joke comes from, I'll inscribe your name in the Middle England Hall of Fame).
For now, the experience is too raw to write much about and I'm rather woozy from lack of sleep and food, the two essentials of life that hospitals aren't very good at providing.
But, apart from a few minor quibbles, the staff were wonderful and the hospital spotless.
They sent me home with just a packet of aspirin and the only negative information being that my cholestorel is a little higher than it should be. This actually worried me disproportionately because it raised the awful possibility that I might have to eat Flora or take the Gloria Hunniford Flora Challenge. I'd rather jog round the neighbourhood wearing pink Lycra emblazoned with a Smoking Kills slogan than do that.