I slept only between the hours of 5 and 6 a.m, thanks to self-induced terror tactics. My son Adam stayed over, having offered to accompany me for my angiogram – or ‘the procedure’. He kindly moved my old Honda Jazz round the corner and parked his car in my space overnight. The procedure revealed that a) I am impossible to sedate – I once told a full joke under anaesthetic; b) I am neurotic; and c) I didn’t, after all, need a stent. So why was I so breathless? Could it be because, at three score and ten… er… plus eight, I find myself in love? Prescription: I must walk more, breathe more, change medication and cool it.
Adam came back to check on me and rebuked me for moving my car – which I hadn’t, because the doctor said that I shouldn’t drive for a day or two. The car had, of course, been hot-rodded and nicked. I phoned 101 and frankly the call was more harrowing than the angiogram. One hour on hold and I needed more sedation. The algorithm gave me a crime number and I gave the algorithm short shrift.
I went to the Mayfair launch of a book about cooking and the crown by Tom Parker Bowles. It was hot and I was overdressed. (Isn’t everyone wearing layers now? Yes, Maureen, but not a whole knitted sheep.) The Queen gazed fondly at her son’s delightfully ditsy speech with exactly the same ‘Aww, bless’ look on her face I sported when I realised my son might have left my stolen car’s window open.
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