Now for something funny

I have been suffering from a chest infection for the last few days which left me feeling exhausted and unable to read or write, as well as coughing like someone with a serious Woodbine habit. This is very annoying for someone who has never smoked.

Feeling ill is not good for someone with an overactive imagination. I have a tendency to be a bit of a hyperchondriac. Every headache is a brain tumour, and when I woke up the other day with a really heavy feeling on my chest, and finding it hard to breathe, I thought I was having a heart attack. It was just Tiger, our Siamese cat, who was sleeping on top of me.

One day last summer, while I was spending far too long at the computer, working on my novel, I realised that my eyesight had gone all blurry. I switched off the PC and went for a walk around the loch at the back of the house, to give my eyes a rest from the screen and to get some much needed exercise. A few hours later, I still could not see properly and vowed not to spend quite so much time at the computer. The next morning I still had trouble focusing and although I could still drive to work I couldn’t see details like number plates or recognise peoples faces on the ferry. In addition to this I had pins and needles running up my arms and legs which was rather disturbing. But all the same I still thought my mammoth session at the computer the previous day was to blame.

However, as soon as I switched on the computer at work my eyes went all blurry again, I had pain shooting through my left arm and then I started getting palpitations. At that point I got kind of nervous and rang the husband, who used to be a nurse and is more of an expert on medical issues than me. When I listed all my symptons, instead of just saying “it’s nothing, stop being so neurotic” like he would normally do, he said he would leave his very important meeting at the police station to pick me up and take me to casualty.

At the hospital, I was ushered through Triage much quicker than expected and within a minute I was being hooked up to an ECG. My life started flashing before my eyes and I started thinking of something impressive, witty or endearing to say as my final words. I implored the husband to get my novel published posthumously, and reminded him of the whereabouts of my life assurance policy.

So imagine my surprise when the Doctor announced that the only thing wrong with me was a migraine. “But I don’t have a headache!” I argued. “That is not necessarily a symptom of migraine,” she replied, “but you might get one later.” She was right; I got the mother of all headaches later on that day. But I learned a very valuable lesson that day.

Don’t spend so much time huddled over a computer screen.



This graffiti on the M1 always makes me smile.