They say you never know the day or the hour.
Fuckit but they (whoever’they’ are) are right.
I had an appointment with the vet for Penny. At three, we duly arrived and Penny had her annual overhaul. She has actually lost weight which is something. The vet nipped out of the room to get some worming tablets. I felt weird. I sat down. The vet came back and asked what was wrong. I said indigestion though I felt a bit worse than that. Horrible pain in the chest and arms, faint and blurred vision.
Anyhows I paid the bill and sat in the car for awhile. The vision cleared a bit so I drove home (very carefully).
Herself took one look and phoned for an ambulance.
So here I am stuck in a bed, bollock naked apart from a sheet, sipping that’s supposed to be tea but isn’t and attached to enough wires to build a telephone exchange.
Yes – I had a fucking heart attack! A. Fucking. Heart. Attack!
Here I am – the bloke who is the epitome of rude health – lying in a hospital bed having been rushed straight into an operating theatre and had something inserted into my heart via my wrist. I am still trying to come to terms with it. Mind you, the nurses are lovely.
The highlight of my day though was in bringing the M50 to a standstill as all the rush hour traffic (and a couple of light rail trains) had to get out of the way for Grandad.
It’s about time I got my due respect.