Magazines Need More Dogs and Balls

Home in Streatham. With the crickets.

I walked home from Tooting Bec tonight, purely for medical reasons. A few weeks ago I had an ECG test run to pick out what's making my heart protest at pivotal moments in the day. Today was 'Holter Tape' Day, a small box thing with three cables running from it which are each attached to strategic points of my chest to track my heart beat for 24 hours. After nine hours the box, about the size of a mobile phone, is still in my pocket. There's a problem.

So far my heart has behaved impeccably. I'm now worried I'm wasting NHS money with no sign of previous problems likely to show up before tomorrow afternoon. Hence, the walk home, full pace, and smoking the last of my cigarettes along the way. I walked the darker route too, just to boost anxiety. Nothing.

Technically, this is good. But I need to prove a point to the woman who shaved a crop circle out of my chest hair to stick the thing on. Plus, I was kind of hoping it wasn't the six espressos I tend to drink each morning - enough caffeine to bring back the dead. It can't be that. What possible harm could the good people at Sagafredo want to do to me?

So I walked home with my heavy bag. The fact I had to go home at all should have kicked off the stress motors. But dammit, I picked now to feel healthy. I have some explaining to do when I have the thing removed tomorrow.