Intravenous drip

A trip up north on Friday took a dodgy turn on Saturday, as I collapsed at a friend's wedding after dancing too viciously to Wham!'s Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go. It's perhaps a bit hyperbolic but certainly no exaggeration to say that, for the two hours before I finally keeled over, I was convinced I was on my way to a first heart attack. The truth of the matter is that, after three nights out on the trot (one of which lasted, fuelled by Red Bull and vodka, until 5am), I had probably completely wiped out my energy reserves.

The ambulance came and took me away to the hospital (thank you to Tony and Sharon, the ambulance drivers, who had much to my amusement both read fellow-Friday-Books-author Tom Reynolds' Blood Sweat & Tea, still available at good bookshops), where I remained for three hours under the supervision of Mark the staff nurse. One IV bag full of fluids, one chest x-ray, two ECGs and several blood and urine tests later, I was discharged under the supervision of my by-now-knackered missus.

Come Monday, I had to go and have another blood test. There isn't a bare patch of skin on my body remaining for someone to suck the stuff from. I'm like a heroin addict without the fun side-effects.

It has to be said, I am a total wuss when it comes to needles. I've spent a lot of time looking the other way these last few days.

Also at the wedding was a girl called Leela. I was delighted. She was white, 26, and British. I said "Oh, like Tom Baker's assistant in Dr Who, right?"

She had no idea what the hell I was talking about. I suddenly felt very old and not very delighted at all.

I'm possibly more ashamed to admit to thinking the following, just before I fell to the floor:

Oh no, now I'll never know what this Mister Saxon business is all about.

And also:

Oh no, everyone will say "He was laughing and joking just a few minutes before he died".

Oh no, I think it might be a bit late to radically alter my lifestyle.

I hope it's not too late to radically alter my lifestyle.