As a young man my motto was: Live hard. Die Young. Make a Good Looking Corpse. Well, I gave it a red hot go, but fell slightly short of achieving those goals. Now I’m on the wrong side of forty five and seriously starting to doubt my chances of living forever.
This is because recently I had an ‘episode’. The pain would have killed a lesser man, but sadly I wasn’t that lucky. When I told Long Suffering Wife what had happened, she immediately made an appointment for me to see her doctor. Then, after a bit of thought, she phoned the Merry Widow Insurance Agency and upped my payout amount.
My usual medico, Doctor Google, drew a blank, so the next day I toddled off to see Long Suffering Wife’s GP, who tested my blood so many times that my arms felt like a bullet riddled highway sign.
Afterwards, I saw a specialist who decided to give me, and my health insurance, a solid going over with a few ‘procedures’. I wasn’t thrilled to discover that one of those procedures involved inserting a cannon barrel into the place I often get told to pull my head out of.
Then, while waiting for my turn on the machine that goes ‘Bing!’, I was alarmed to find that the old lady slumped against me wasn’t so much at Deaths’ Door, but in Deaths’ Lounge-Room admiring his carpets. So when they called my name, I pointed to her unconscious form and cried, “Please! Take her first!” Which, for some reason, everyone thought was quite funny?
Anyway, long story short, I’ll live to a ripe old age; if I don’t die first. But if I’d known I was going to live this long, I’d have definitely taken much better care of myself as a young bloke.