Broadcasting to the Nation

Not unconnected to the ear problem, now sorted, I struggled with my headphones recently. The volume seemed particularly low even though it was at max. Deafness creeping in?

I ran a quick test as to whether one ear was better than the other by taking each ear-piece out in turn. The sound was very faint either side. But I noticed one strange thing. For a brief moment, when one ear-piece slipped in my grasp, I had nothing in either ear and yet could still hear.

Ladies and gentlemen I solved the problem by inserting the jack into the socket just a little bit more. After a click the sound now came out of the earphones rather then my pocket.

For many hundreds of metres I had been broadcasting to the nation the hip and happening sound of a podcast of BBC Radio Four's science programme The Infinite Monkey Cage.

I am so cool.

Ears - what gets into them?

In the early 90s I struggled with blocked ears for a while. Thinking they would need syringing (as it was a problem my Dad had) I went to the doctors only to be told I had ear infections in both ears. Some antibiotics cleared things up. Strange to have had painless infections but I guess these things can happen.

Wind forward ten years and I was on holiday. Coming out of the swimming pool one day the water did not clear from my ears. Couldn't shift it. Suffering quite horrid pain on the aeroplane home and the pressurised cabin I made a doctor's appointment, expecting antibiotics again would be necessary. This time I was told there was no infection or blockage but that a pressure imbalance was the likely cause. I was given a nasal decongestant to use which worked. From time to time thereafter, when my ears felt blocked, I used the decongestant and it helped.

Two years ago I had a recurrence and the nose spray made no difference. This time the triage nurse told me my ears were waxed up and I needed to use oil for a month then get them syringed. It took a few years for the patriarchal DNA to catch up with me but Dad I got there eventually.

Since before Christmas my ears have felt blocked and I have been tipping oil into them ready for a syringing appointment this week. On attending I was told that both ears were clear and I probably had some fluid at the back as the legacy of a cold virus (which I have had since early December). 'Lay off the oil for a few days' was the advice. 

So I'm back on the decongestant which seems to be working now I replaced the one that was best before 2009.

Self-diagnosis is over-rated. But going to the doctors for minor matters makes me feel guilty.

Design by the Devil

Friend of mine was fond of posing this question, when running a training event for children's leaders in an old church building. How, do you think, would the devil have gone about designing a building for worship and ministry?

He would then suggest that perhaps the seating would have been made rigid and uncomfortable, the heating unreliable and the leader of any event put as far as possible from those engaging with it, maybe even up a flight of steps. If enough separation of leader and led was not established he posited a screen being built between the two to further cut down visibility. I think people got the point.

I revisited this question in a traffic queue recently as I wondered if the very Devil himself had been involved in the Southmead Hospital car-park.

Arriving, an hour or so earlier for a routine visit late afternoon, I had been unable to park not because of a lack of spaces but because the queue to leave prevented anyone from getting in.

On arrival I checked the payment system and saw the costs. I also checked that change was given. I established that I needed to use a payment system at a pay station before trying to exit.

I did my visit.

I got back to the pay station. On the walk stress point 1 reared. Reports had bothered me that 500 yard queues had built up recently because two of the three pay stations had been out of order. There was no queue but then I hit stress point 2. I had to enter my vehicle registration number at the pay station. I don't always recall my current reg although FWK 616L and UOF 247S are etched in my memory, my first two cars. Luckily an appalling obscenity is a good mnemonic for my current registration.

After paying, a message said I was free to leave and had over an hour to do it in. I was issued with no token or ticket.

I drove out, trying to leave appropriate gaps for vehicles entering the car park to get in but (stress point 3) impatient people then overtook me and blocked the gaps.

As the queue reached the exit I saw the cars stopping at a barrier. There was a machine next to it which some people touched and others didn't. Stress point 4 - had I failed to memorise a code or pick up a token?

Getting nearer I found that the machine was simply a 'call' button and that cars seemed to have to wait a while (15 secs) for the barrier to raise. I had to (stress point 5) put my faith in automatic registration plate recognition software. I also (stress point 6) had to be sure I had entered my registration number in the machine correctly. I was sure I had but in the queue the doubts built up. Was there a precise place to stop to make this easier? Who knows. The barrier rose after a brief wait.

Bearing in mind that people trying to leave this car-park are either already stressed because they have been ill and are going home, maybe still uncomfortable, or have been visiting a sick relative and are sad, might I humbly ask if hospital car-park design might be made as easy as possible for those who are in a bad way already.

I have heard of one visitor, catching up with a husband who has just had a serious illness diagnosed, having a complete meltdown and leaving a car on the grass and having to be helped by security and treated by nursing staff. Automated car-parks may well be a false economy. People in trouble want to see people who can help.

Annual Battle

Good afternoon and welcome to the finale of this year's programme of Vynes Glebe one-on-ones. I'm Pru Nowt. We reach autumn and the annual battle between Steve the Clip and his garden pyracantha bush. Last year the plant won easily but our hero goes into battle this year with new ideas. Over to our commentator Angsty Gardner. Angsty:

Yeah thanks Pru. We hear Steve has got himself some extra gloves, is being sensible enough to wear long-sleeved clothing this year and, get this, has two saws and a set of working secateurs. But his usual stumbling block is the desire to get things over with quickly. This is often his downfall. He needs to work slowly and steadily.

And he's off and a few good clips to the outside middle making himself space to work in and up. Good start.

Now he's got the ladder and he's taking the outside branches off. He seems to be learning. 2-0. But wait, what's this? There are two branches just out of reach. He repositions the ladder but still he can't get them. He leans in at the top if the ladder - asking for trouble and - yes, as I expected a full puncture wound to the lower abdomen. 2-1.

Still, he took the last branches out. 3-1. Now all he has to do is cut them down to size and put them in his green bags. Going well. Nearly there.

It's the last minute and this is indeed injury time. He grips one of the last pieces between his knees and impales the inside of both his legs simultaneously. 3-3. Can he hang on for a draw?

And as he takes off his gloves and rolls up his sleeves he finds another set of wounds he doesn't even recall getting. That's dramatic. That's final and that's painful. He throws the gloves to the floor in frustration.

4-3 to the bush. This is Angsty Gardner handing you back to the studio.

Thought for the Day

Today's thought, delivered at BBC Radio Bristol:

As I heard of heart transplant patient Kevin Mashford cycling from Bristol to Newcastle another name popped into my head. Louis Washkansky. Followed by that of Dr Christiaan Barnard. Hidden in my mind, but stuck there by constant repetition. In 1967 Washkansky was given the world's first heart transplant; Barnard the surgeon.

Washkansky died after eighteen days. He knew the risks. Without the transplant the future for him was very bleak. Today the complex operation is relatively routine.

In one of the Nailsea churches I serve there are several wall memorials to children. One eighteenth century family lost three under fives, probably to illnesses simple treatment could today cure. I never cease to be grateful that I have survived chicken pox and measles to be here.

And I've been stitched up a couple of times without pain. Thank you anaesthesia.

We are blessed to live in a time of amazing medical progress.

From ancient times we have had a simple mantra that health is good and illness bad. The stories of the Bible, especially of Jesus, all show disease or death interrupting the action and having to be dealt with. Take up your mat and walk again.

The people then asked 'Who is this man? Sickness obeys him.' Astonishing.

Broadcaster Garrison Keillor always ended his Lake Wobegon monologues with this. 'Well, that's the news from Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.'

It is not possible for all our hospitals to be above average. But we do well to note that all are getting steadily better, as indeed, are we.

Sensitive Skin

Shocking as it may be to regular readers and listeners, but there is a part of me that is sensitive. Ever since a bout of pitiriasis rosea (I think I recall the spelling) in 2007 the skin on my torso has been eczematic. Now I have a good regime of moisturising and can control it well.

One of the particular problems is having very artificial fibres next to the skin. I therefore cover up with decent cotton T-shirts and thin-knits. The more natural the garment the less likely it is to cause a rash after a few hours. This is slightly annoying but gives me an excuse to wear expensive clothes. I probably didn't need one.

On purchase my first task is usually to remove the label and washing instructions since they are made of nasty scratchy material. Here's the thing. The more expensive the garment the more carefully the label will be stitched in. I'm talking to you Reiss, John Smedley, T.M. Lewin. It is very hard to get your labels out without having to restitch. I don't ask my wife to do much for me but she is an able seamstress and has a stitch unpicker which she employs dextrously.

Why spoil an expensive garment by putting cheap labels in them? And why not put a big label in the shop saying 'If you are too stupid to work out how to wash this you don't want to buy it'?

Megabites

Not sure there are any insect bite remedies I will pass over. I have had bad reactions to bites all my life and also seem to attract biting creatures. This, says the love of my life, is the reason she takes me on holiday as I keeps the mozzies off of her. Last two weeks I've had about thirty bites. She has had two.

I will use creams, gels, repellents, sprays, anti-histamines the lot. Anything, including cold showers in the middle of the night.

This year's holiday in a hot climate has been average for insect bites but very good for controlling the symptoms. The new piece of equipment I have is this. You electrocute yourself (nicely).

Three or four clicks on the bite and wait for five minutes or so and I swear you will have forgotten all about it. Works for about four hours or so. Best gift I've had for ages.

1 in 5

You will know, regular readers, that this blog gets profoundly irritated when statistics are used badly in the media. That irritation reaches seismic proportions when it is allegedly smart people who try and say intuitive things about stats without thinking first.

So, with the possible caveat that there may be a misquote in the ipaper, this from Sanjay Sharma, professor no less, of cardiology at St George's Hospital, Tooting, south London, who runs a screening unit for sports people. We are talking about the collapse of Fabrice Muamba in Saturday's FA Cup tie at White Hart Lane:

I am surprised it was not picked up. The medical screening these players get is extremely comprehensive. It will identify 80 per cent of conditions causing sudden death.

If 20 per cent of conditions are not found then that is one in five. A sudden collapse is a rare event (but the papers have recently given details of four or five in the last few years) and I think a professor of cardiology should rein in his surprise and instead be amazed at how lucky he has been to date.

We continue to pray for Fabrice Muamba's recovery but our optimism about the future should be tempered. An 80 per cent effective screening process is good but not great. One in five of the people who have a rare heart condition (so a small group) will be playing without knowledge of it.

Good for you bad for you

The sidebar today pays homage to the statistic, widely quoted this week in the press, that those who exercise for 15 minutes a day are healthier than those who don't. And people who watch six hours of TV or more a day are more obese, subject to more health problems and more likely to be unemployed than those who don't.

I ask with all humility, but could it be possible that carts and horses have been placed in the wrong order here?

A Kick in the Knee

In her own way Mrs M decided to make my earlier post about pain in the night a self-fulfilling prophecy. Last night she had a back spasm and kicked me in the bad knee. You can't begin to imagine the contortions necessary to get from her side of the bed to kick me on the further-away knee.

Still (which we weren't) I commend the dance we then carried out as one partner back-stretched and the other knee massaged both screaming the while. It needs a name I feel. You may laugh now.

Brief Medical Update

Well ladies, gentlemen and those at that awkward in-between stage, I am back at my desk after my recuperation. I sneaked in a quick church meeting to get the hang of it again last Wednesday. Yesterday was a duty day although sorting out the @htnailsea emails took care of most of the morning after an early staff meeting and then it was (cue atmospheric doom music) Deanery Chapter.

I still have a fair few emails to go so sorry if you're waiting.

Today is Cafe Create. Having fallen off the mountain, I appear to have avoided the nursery slopes and will be retraining whilst dangling from a precarious rope. Cafe Create normally involves a lot of physical work so if you can drop by for an hour or two at 4-6pm to shift and carry that would be well groovy. Tonight we will have poetry, story-telling and live music. Be there.

I have remastered driving. Emergency stops are not accompanied by screams.

My knee is doing well and the exercise regime seems to be working. By and large I have not been in pain except for something I do in bed when I'm asleep which is agony but by the time I have got down off the ceiling I have lost track of what I just did to hurt so. I'd blame Mrs Mustard but this morning she had already got up when it happened. If she was standing over me with a hammer saying 'that's for the last 37 years you bastard' it would at least be an explanation. Stitches come out on Monday.

I can climb stairs almost properly and have walked a mile. Not bad for eight days after invasive surgery under general anaesthetic. It will be a while before I know the operation has been a complete success but optimism would not be out of place at this stage.

Shutting Down

It is observed that the body has a tremendous capacity, when placed in a situation of emergency, to shut down support to all but essential systems. Thus a person who is about to be shot will lose bladder control.

Since having my knee surgery on Thursday, and despite the fact that I have been reading and watching films and TV since, I seem to have lost the capacity to say anything interesting (don't heckle) apart from reporting on my progress while my body concentrates on getting better. Clever body.

So I continue to be well on the mend and need to remind myself that recuperation will be slow. I will get back to my pre-operative state quickly but it will be a while until I get back the movement in my knee I lost eleven months ago when I tore the cartilage in the first place. I need to be a patient patient. Over enthusiastic exercise in the first two weeks after surgery, although feeling possible, will not be helpful.

The surgeon gave me a sick note for three weeks 'in case you need it.' Being a vicar is slightly less physically demanding than being a furniture remover (although they never told me at college how much furniture I would end up moving over the next twenty six years) so I will be back at light duties after a week.

For this week it's reading and movie watching and a test of the recovery will be whether or not I have anything intelligent to say by way of review or comment.

Knee Fixed

Routine surgery found the partial cartilage tear that everyone had suspected and fixed it. Was up and about within 40 minutes of coming round from a general anaesthetic and home within a couple of hours. Delighted to report that the nausea I have experienced on previous occasions with generals was simply not there. I guess technology has moved on.

So thank for your prayers. My knee is a bit sore (but nothing like as bad as I expected) so I'll be resting it up for a few days within an exercise regime.

Until tomorrow.

Knees

Just so's you all know, tomorrow I'm going to be off sick for a bit. This will be the fourth time in my life I've entered hospital feeling by and large OK and will come out feeling grim. It's all for the best as I'm having my torn knee cartilage repaired. It's eleven months since I tore it.

When I was fourteen I had an operation on my left knee which necessitated four days in bed, ten days in hospital and three months on crutches. I still have the three inch scar. Complete success though. Left knee still works fine. Tomorrow I will be, all being well, in hospital for five hours and will only have a small scar. On my right knee. Surgeons please note.

For those who like the three syllable extravaganza that is surgery description:

The procedure - Knee Arthroscopy - unspecified therapeutic endoscopic operations on semilunar cartilage.

If I don't come round from the anaesthetic Mrs M is vegetarian but she does eat fish.

Don't you love that sneaky word 'unspecified.'

A Year in Illness 2

A few days ago I posed the question, here, that I wondered for how many days of last year I would have described myself as feeling healthy. I made a note in the corner of my diary at the end of every day as to what, if anything had been troubling me or if my health was good. Here are the results:

129 Good
  88 Knee trouble
  69 Mouth ulcers or sore mouth
  38 Cold, fever, chest infection or post viral
  14 Eczema
    6 Stiff neck
    5 Insect bites
    4 Bad back
    3 Ear trouble
    3 Infected finger
    2 Headaches
    2 Toothache
    1 Allergy
    1 Ganglion

Now here's some things:

1. I tore a cartilage in February and am awaiting knee surgery. It troubled me all the rest of the year but only in a noteworthy way, or as the most serious problem, on 88 days. That should be 88 better days in 2011.

2. I would say that last year I was fit and healthy by and large. This raises the question, 'What does it mean to be fit and healthy?' I had three colds last year but don't really remember being ill with them apart from two or three days. The worst health days I can recall were the few days in Gozo when I had insect bites and the period after I did my back (as a recovering disc-slipper I get scared when I do my back).

3. Some days I had more than one thing wrong with me but I've noted the thing I diaried as the lead problem

4. I'm not continuing with the experiment. It would look like OCD.

So all very interesting. What started as a piece of research for a talk on healing (what does it mean to be well?) all got a bit out of hand. Enough.

A Year in Illness

How do you feel today? I'm only asking because another little experiment I started last January, admittedly only as preparation for an Alpha talk on healing, was to record at the end of each day anything wrong with my health. This might only be a minor thing each day, but I wondered on how many days of the year I would record that nothing was wrong at all.

I am not a hypochondriac. What would be your hunch?

Health Check

A good opening gambit for any public-service provider receptionist ought to be, 'Tell me, if you have a bad experience here, do you intend to write about it in your national newspaper column?'

And although 500 or so readers a week is hardly a national column, and notwithstanding my late father's advice never to insult anyone who may one day be holding a scalpel over something important of yours, here goes.

Today, in preparing for a planned arthroscopy, I had to go to an NHS treatment centre in North Bristol. My appointment was for 0935 and I was told to allow at least three hours for it. This statement was accurate.

I arrived and went to reception. I was given a long form to fill in and a pager. I was told to go through to outpatients when the pager buzzed.

I filled in the form and read three quarters of this month's GQ and began to wonder if I should check on the delay. NHS patients do not like to check on the delay until they have begun to suffer severe malnourishment. I noticed a notice telling me that if I had not been called in fifteen minutes I should inform reception. Since I had been waiting thirty-five minutes I went back to reception. There was a queue and no obvious way to jump it if you were not a patient trying to register but trying to enquire about the delay.

I was told, after a phone call from reception to someone else in the building, that I would be called soon. Immediately I settled back down with my GQ my pager buzzed. So; they had forgotten me.

I went through the doors I had been directed through and followed the signs to outpatients reception, which took me beyond outpatients reception to a dead end. About-turning I found I had walked right past the desk. I handed over my hot buzzing pager and was told to take a seat. Again. This time in a less comfortable corridor where I had to keep moving my legs in to allow others to pass. Moving my right leg in is a current difficulty. I can hokey but not cokey.

I had had to surrender my GQ to the previous waiting room so I gave my attention to my book. At first it was hard to concentrate but eventually I settled down into it and read a chapter of John Lanchester's excellent Whoops! It's the financial crisis for idiots. I commend it.

By 1035 (sixty minutes after the timed appointment I was told was precise and there was no need to arrive early for) I had still not seen anyone but a receptionist so I plucked up the courage to enquire. I was told I was due in next. The delay was because reception hadn't told them I was here.

Next meant ten more minutes but I saw a man called Josef, who was being watched over by another man. Josef asked me a few simple questions in English, his second language I'd guess, examined me and confirmed I had what everyone thought I had and that surgery would work. He noticed I was a vicar and told me an amusing story about how he had bought a Bible for 50p on Bible Sunday yesterday.

Flung back into the corridor to await I knew not what next I had got no more than ten pages on in Whoops! when Ange and Debs called me in to a consulting room 'to get things moving.' This included a blood pressure reading (still low), nasal swab and a groin swab. For this latter they handed me a swab and asked me to swab 'my left groin.'

I swear I have no idea where my 'left groin' starts.

During none of this time was I told how many people I would be seeing, where I was headed next or what the person seeing me actually was.

Ange and Debs' double act included many complaints about their slow or crashing computer. They asked me a few demographic questions but struggled to find 'Roman or Viking' an amusing answer to their ethnicity question. By this stage I was entertaining myself, I fear. Not funny and not clever. I was returned to the corridor for a further half hour.

Finally I was seen by a bubbly, Afro-Caribbean, Pentecostal Christian woman from Wolverhampton. The nature of my work means I tend to find out more about denominations than health specialisms. She interviewed me about my health. Hooray. Many of the questions I answered with 'As I put on the form.' I wanted my 30 minutes work on it at the start of the morning to have been worthwhile.

She declared me fit for surgery and could now go. I asked how the appointment would be arranged. She said reception would sort it out but, taking me back to outpatients' reception noticed there was nobody there, so she took me to main reception. There was a queue. She told me to sit down and they would call me over.

I only gave it five minutes before noticing no queue so I wandered over. My file was now five down in a pile and there was no suggestion that anyone would have called me over anytime soon. I asked about an appointment for surgery.

I must tell you that there is a discrepancy between the letter I was sent which told me it was important to bring my diary so that a surgery date within four or five weeks could be fixed, the brochure which said this would be two or three weeks and reality, 'There are no appointments; the person who does it is at lunch, we will phone you when some more are released.'

I was allowed to leave. I swear if I hadn't queried the delay on three occasions I would still be there, being cleaned round. If you ever find yourself  in Emerson's Green waiting room it would be a kindness to check if any of the people already waiting look dehydrated.

But I repent of thinking nothing good ever came out of Wolverhampton.

Prayers for Healing

Here's the problem. I have a torn cartilage in my right knee and am on a waiting list for simple, effective day-surgery. From time to time it hurts like blazes; on other occasions - sometimes a few days in length - it is symptomless.

Last Sunday I had a good gym session and felt fine afterwards. During the periods when my knee feels better it is my prayer that I might know clearly whether this is healing or respite. I don't want to go for surgery if I don't need it. But almost the only way to find out if I need it is to have my knee opened up. Torn cartilages are notoriously difficult to see but they can be diagnosed easily enough with a pain-response to particular movements. Which I have.

I go to the gym to keep fit and to keep my back symptomless. Since I tore my cartilage back in February I have had to avoid running, rowing and lower-body weights but I've got by and the back's been OK with one minor tweak.

In my bedroom, removing my trainers, (the showers at the gym have been out of action for a wee while) I jolted my leg and a terrible pain tore up it. I have to say that I was disappointed but also happy. If you take an annoying car-noise to a mechanic it is dreadful when the squeak don't squeak.

So last night someone had a 'word' that there was a person to pray for with a right knee problem and a left elbow problem. I asked if this was thought to be two problems in one individual but they weren't sure. I tend to dismiss 'words from the Lord' if a statistical analysis would give me just as much chance of a hit. So I had hoped this 'word' was about one person. That would be less likely to be down to pure chance in a room of 30 or so people.

So they asked about me and I explained about my knee and that even if it was healed I wouldn't know without the surgery so I would be going ahead with the operation anyway so if they didn't mind I'd rather go home (it had been a two and half hour meeting at which I'd been taking notes as secretary most of the night) and cuddle the wife for ten seconds before bed. I had a feeling (forgive me) that these people would not be able to pray short-windedly.

Lack of faith or renewed mind? Your call.

Booking an Appointment for Knee Examination

Although I can be a bit of an arse at times I think it would be fair to say that I am quite smart. Educated to degree level I was even a member of Mensa for a year a while back, until I was clever enough to realise that the company of people good at IQ tests was hell's waiting room itself.

So the three stapled-together sheets from NHS Somerset should not have been a problem:

First thing I read:

To book your appointment please call The Booking Management Service: (01278 ******)
(PLEASE IGNORE THE TELEPHONE NUMBERS ON THE APPOINTMENT REQUEST SHEET and the one given by healthspace when you are not able to book your appointment online)

To Book Via the Internet go to https://www.healthspace.nhs.uk/

So this is all before I get to the 'Dear Patient' bit. Something to ignore before I've read anything, an alarming random use of capitals, bold and text size and the introduction of a word 'healthspace' of which I have never heard.

Reading on I discover that phoning the Booking Management Service is indeed my first step but I will need to have my appointment request sheet (sheet two, although labelled sheet 1 of 2) and my password (sheet three, although labelled sheet 2 of 2) at hand.

I discover that when I choose and book the appointment (details on sheet two and, aha, here is a phone number I think I have to ignore) I can choose ONE of the following choices. I guess there are many people who choose to book two appointments and go to the earlier one but I am saved this ethical dilemma by only having one choice available in the box that follows. Here, in all its glory, is my choice:

Musculoskeletal Interface service - NSPCT - 5M841
MUSCULOSKELETAL INTERFACE SERVICE
Online booking for this service is not available

It is followed by the second telephone number I need to ignore.

When I pluck up the resolution to phone, the automated answering machine thanks me for calling Choose and Book, an organisation I am not aware of having phoned.

After a few holds and presses (probably the things that hurt my knee in the first place) I get through to a nice woman who tells me she can't book my appointment for this but I will hear from the clinic in a few days.

If this is the sort of thing that counts as waste then I am up for getting rid of it. What hope would you have if you were not smart?

I have now seen a nice doctor at the clinic, oops I mean interface service and have been diagnosed with a torn cartilage which I have three more weeks to exercise into submission before I get keyhole-scalpel work.

Continuing my work as a chaos-generator right now I can tell you there was a fire alarm while I was in the clinic.

I'll keep you informed.

Medical Update

Thanks to everyone who has been concerned about my dodgy knee. I know using my blog for a medical update is really tedious, especially for casual visitors, but it will save me repeating the same story over and over so here goes:

Back in February, whilst undertaking that well known dangerous activity turning left in a corridor, my knee clicked. After a bit it started to hurt if I used it, so I rested up. Next day it was massively swollen so I rested up some more. Day three and the swelling went down, stiffness eased and it started to get better. Over the next few weeks it got loads better but never completely. Then, for reasons that I don't understand, it started to get worse again.

I hoped that a holiday might be a chance to rest it, with lots of swimming as therapy. I did that but it didn't work.

We divert to my chest for a paragraph. A grandfather of mine died of a heart attack aged 55 (21 years before I was born) so, although healthy, I am flagged up as one to watch if I get a chest pain. I got a chest pain. I am 55. Saw doctor. ECG was fine but I was sent to some alarmingly titled clinic in Bristol to do a treadmill ECG. This too was fine but, in demonstrating my ability to get my heart rate up and down again, I knacked my knee good and proper. Over competitive ECG use.

I had an X-ray. This has eliminated anything to do with arthritis, floating matter and, as far as they can tell, cartilage damage, so it looks like it is a ligament problem. Next stop is a musculo-skeletal clinic in Clevedon.

In going through this array of tests I have discovered that the reason I get dizzy sometimes when I stand up suddenly is because I have very low blood pressure, apparently a good thing. The chest pain was nothing - maybe acid, maybe a muscle. I have some of those but they are hard to spot.

Thank you for caring. If you didn't how come you read this far?