It is the moment I have been dreading. Janet stares at my face and points to my nose. ‘I think you’d better get that checked out,’ she says.
When I fear I am becoming clumsy in old age, I take out my smartphone, cradle it in the palm of my hand and admire its pristine glass surfaces.
Want to hear some good news? Of course not. Only bad news sells papers, attracts viewers, gets clicks. Good news is for freesheets and council newsletters. Young people raise cash for puppies? Pass the sick bag.
There are more than 1,200 home exercise bikes for sale on Gumtree. That’s more than 1,200 sellers whose dreams of peak fitness lie abandoned in the corner of the spare bedroom or garage. But one of them now has an extra £15 to spend on comfort food.
At last I’ve caught up. Not only does my new-to-me but previously-loved motor have climate control and a heated windscreen, it lets me play music from my phone.
With the arrival of spring, a small heap of unfamiliar junk lands on my desk. ‘I have been clearing out the cupboard under the stairs,’ says Janet. ‘I think this is your stuff.’
The nurse is gentle with me and tells me I perhaps need to drink more water. But ‘Dr Google’ does not pull his punches. Blood in the urine? I have cancer without a doubt and likely as not will be dead within a year.
I once had a friend who, whenever she nicked herself with a kitchen knife or barked her shins on a dishwasher door, would cry ‘Thatcher!’ How many hours of practice had gone into this?
I catch Janet studying the side of a cereal packet. ‘I’m sending off for your personalised All-Bran cereal spoon,’ she tells me. ‘I can’t wait to see you produce it at dinner parties.’
My mother has a problem with gas. It is, she informs me, a ‘gastric thing’, and nothing I can say will shake her firm belief that the two words are related.
What did the woman serving the quiche do while her brainy husband was working? Look after the children? Clean the house? Make dinner? I should know better than to make these numbskull assumptions.
For a full five minutes, I completely misunderstood what Janet was telling me. ‘Emma went on a canine first aid course at the weekend.’ Canine first aid? I guess it could work.
The official-looking email was rather alarming. Glancing at the sender’s name, I saw it was from ACPO – the Association of Chief Police Officers. Was I in trouble?
I know the minute I walk in that something is up. Four people are talking quietly in a huddle, two are staring at their screens with rare concentration, and someone has put the office banter on mute.
It is time for my six-monthly check-up: the ‘blood and pee’ session where the practice nurse and I exchange light-hearted banter while she tightens cuffs and inserts needles and tippety-taps the facts of my life into a computer.
Now listen up. I could be about to wipe my hard drive, so I need to make this quick. Yesterday, a counter-terrorism guy came to my workplace to give a presentation on how to survive a Marauding Terrorist Firearms Attack (MTFA), and one thing led to another.