A nice warm hand...

Thanks to the many few of you who expressed an interest in my well-being following my previous post. Although 'interest' is probably not the word to use, seeing as 'unabashed hilarity' is so much more fitting. In a previous life, several of you would have been found at the foot of a guillotine, knitting and cackling.

Anyway, dear readers, what have we learned from Friday's experience? Well, zapping a small charge of electricity through my body tells us that I appear to have a similar fat content to that of a pork scratching. Although rather less crunchy. Also, we now know that medical staff tasked with measuring patients' waists aren't convinced by breathing in. It might work on the new girl at work, but it's not fooling anyone in a white coat.

My least favourite part of the morning was the blood test. Call me a traditionalist if you will, but I consider the whole purpose of skin and veins is to keep the vital fluids gushing around inside. I have no truck with anyone wanting to subvert that process. Especially if, having had a good old stab at my left arm, they tell me my veins aren't coming out to play and that they're going to have to try a classic pincer manoeuvre by going for my right one as well.

This was then followed by the blood pressure reading. Now, given that my arms could by then have featured in a Pete Doherty tribute act, as the cuff went on and the pressure built, I had visions of blood spurting out of various holes like a rather gruesome lawn sprinkler.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Fatboyfat, the Human Trevi Fountain."

Apparently, my BP was on the high side. This didn't come as a massive shock to me. Test it after I've been attacked by Mr Drilling-For-Oil and you get what you get.

The electrocardiogram came next. "Mr Injury, may I introduce Mr Insult to you? I'm sure you'll get along famously." To attach the pads, some creative chest-shaving was required. Two separate patches, leaving a hirsute area in between. Essentially, my chest now looks like Hitler's top lip.

Next it was the doctor's turn. A lady doctor, young and, it must be said, quite attractive. After 20 minutes of her ministrations I was looking for any available exits, knowing full well what was coming up. But then she threw me a curve ball.

"Now you won't be needing the prostate test," she said, "as you're under 40."

"Oh. Right." The conflicting emotions of relief and puzzlement exchanging sporadic gunfire across my mind. My last two health-checks had finished with this particular experience. Maybe the doctors in question had been given some sort of quota to fill.

"So, can I examine your groin?"

And I'm sorry, but there's no sensible answer to this, is there? The previous doctors hadn't really given me a choice. They'd just dived in, without so much as a by-your-leave. But she'd asked for my permission. There is a social etiquette to be observed, even at moments like this. If I'd said "No" I suppose that would have me marked out as some sort of wimp. But then again, I think it's considered bad form to sound too keen. Even "Yes please" is a little too much, really. I mumbled assent. Latex gloves were snapped on.

There were two further lessons I took away at that point. Firstly, at certain moments there's nothing quite as fascinating as an office ceiling. And second- it's really quite difficult to summon up a cough on demand.