On not dying of a heart attack

So, I arrived home on the evening of my rabbit-in-the-headlights TV appearance with a pain in my chest. I'm recovering from a stomach ulcer (an ideal way to lose weight really quickly) and thought nothing of it.

By 10.30 it was all the way down my left arm, and the alarm bells began to ring. I called the NHS 111 number, and they dragged me off to Frimley Park Hospital in an ambulance staffed by a ridiculously good looking pair of paramedics straight out of the 0118 999 881 999 119 725...3 sketch.

There, the stuck things on me, in me, and up me and left me in a cubicle for two hours with the ping of the heart monitor for company.

Bored.

A game! Every time somebody walked past, play dead. That game did not last long.

A game of skill! Try to get your heart rate to read 69 on the monitor. When it hits 69, shout "69, dude!"  That game lasted an hour and a half.

Eventually, a doctor arrived to tell me that I was not dying of a heart attack. But if I didn't get my stress levels down (for eg, by doing live TV all the time), I bally well might be a candidate for one.

Signed off for two weeks. Kim Jong Un's going to (not) have his war without me.

(Also, I now know how I'm going to die --- writing a blog post about it)