2006-09-28 - 4:49 p.m.

God, there’s only been a history of heart trouble in the family for about 6 weeks, and already it’s wreaking bloody havoc.

Yesterday afternoon, I’m in the office, at my desk with lunch (baked spud and beans, since you ask) when all of a sudden things don’t feel right AT ALL.

It’s a sign of the times that my first decision is to self-diagnose on Wikipedia.

Shooting chest pain? Check. Heart feel like it’s practising flik-flaks up and down my rib cage? Check. Body setting about redefining the word ‘clammy’? Chee-yeck. Congratulations! You’re having a suspected heart attack!

(It all turns out OK – I’m here writing this, remember)

Again, it’s strange how you think in times of crisis, and my overriding thought was that I didn’t want to die in front of my hateful big boss, a braying speck of yuppie pond life. Oh, he’d LOVE that, I thought, trying not to scream.

Anyway, I waited for a suitable break in the searing agony and left the building to hail a cab whilst texting my immediate nice boss. Who says men can’t multi-task? Digital communication, transport arrangement and myocardial infarction all effortlessly combined!

I even fulfil a childhood dream of saying “Take me to the nearest hospital!” to the startled cabbie. I knew I must have looked bad, because even he blanched, and London cabbies look pretty bad themselves, so it can’t have been good. Thanks to London’s seamless traffic management systems, the journey didn’t even take much beyond 5 hours.

As I arrived at A&E, things seemed to have calmed down, chest-al wise, but I was still in a bad enough state to have them ‘rush’ me to the front of the queue, which these days is a none-too-reassuring 10 minute wait.

Besides planning my last words, I noticed a regal looking couple across from me with a young daughter. The mother had a dressing on her hand, and was holding it upright. At reception, a tattooed gorilla I assumed to be their minder/driver is shouting at the poor woman dealing with them.

“Look! Is there a private ward?!” he’s yelling. “This man (points to posh boy) is third in line to the throne of (lowers voice annoyingly)...(raises voice amusingly) He’s got more money than you can shake a stick at!”

At this, the couple look hopeful yet embarrassed, especially since every bum in the waiting room – and there are a lot of bums – is now sizing him up. I was glad my regal hunches were correct though – the 4 year old obviously came from a gene pool that had a luxury spa attached offering hot stone massage and seaweed facials.

I’m not sure what was wrong with the princess’ hand – perhaps there was a freak accident whilst she was waving a stick at her husband’s money?

Sadly, I’m rushed through before it’s resolved. I get the primo service, though. Heart trace, blood pressure, all the blood tests I could spurt into and even a neat chest shave so that they can hook me up to some machines.

I saw 4 or 5 doctors. All women. And let me tell you, you get a better class of chick MD in this posh part of town. Well groomed, cleverer than brain pie and with a winning bedside manner. They were all called Pippa or Imogen or Treaclehair.

One called Jemima came into my little booth and asked me if I ever took cocaine. She had a cheeky look in her eye and for a second I thought perhaps she was going to try and sell me some. I said ‘no’, but she looked dubious, having found out I was a journalist. “Come on,” she said. “You can tell ME…”

Suitably persuaded, she said I had probably had a bad spasm, and had I been to the gym recently? I was insulted she couldn’t tell, but in fact I had been for my annual workout just the day before. Seems my ticker was gushing an enzyme related to both heavy exercise AND imminent death.

There was a test to determine which was which – another hole in my now junky-like arms – but it could only be done after 6 hours, so I had to be kept in for observation. Another childhood ambition fulfilled! I have ALWAYS wanted to be ‘kept in for observation’!

The Obs ward was, as I had long suspected, the business class lounge of the hospital. Immediately I’m offered magazines, a comfy chair and a dinner menu. The flat bed is obviously a given, but it doesn’t harm the picture. I was assured I wouldn’t cark it at least a couple of times an hour. It was quite refreshing.

Sadly, the 9pm blood test goes on for ever as the nurse tries about 17 different veins. I told there probably wasn’t much left in there, but eventually her persistence paid off.

Around 11pm (I went in at 1pm), my 6th doctor of the day (sadly a miserable Kiwi bloke) came to say that there had been no discernable heart damage, and that it was probably just a one off, but to get a health check, etc, not snort lard and have 18 pints of cigarettes a night, that kind of thing.

He didn’t really have to tell me. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever been through, and I’ve been to a Bryan Adams concert.