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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.

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