Having reached an age I didn’t think I’d live to, I was invited for my first NHS Health Check.
On entering the room, the petit blond nurse babbled out the necessary information about the human MOT so fast I thought I’d have to check her blood pressure instead, in case she had a heart attack.
I thought, I’m the one having the tests, surely I should be the nervous, gibbering wreck?
The test started with me standing on digital scales fully clothed, including jeans and flat trainers, where she confidently announced I was 3lbs heavier than I was when I weighed myself in boxers that morning. I waited for her to make a mental and written adjustment that never came.
She then tried measuring my height, which may have worked better if she hadn’t been so short and could reach the measuring stick above my head or realised that her surprisingly accurate guess-timation of 180cm converts into 6ft and not 5ft 10”, which is the figure she recorded, giving me a totally distorted height/weight ratio, which is now in my medical records to make positive coroner identification of my body needlessly difficult.
After good blood pressure and blood tests results, she announced that my heart is apparently 5 years older than me. I’m not sure how this can be. I don’t remember it staying up later than me. Nor do I have a clue when its birthday is so as I can buy it a cake. But if this isn’t my heart, who’s got mine?
I’d also like to know as a non-smoker, living alone why I was given advice about reducing my risk of cancer from passive smoking? I don’t live next door to an arsonist.
Finally, she said I should do more intensive exercise, at which point, I star-jumped out of my chair, vaulted over her desk, jogged my way out of her surgery and sprinted all the way home.
So hopefully, when I see her again in 5 years, I’ll be the same age as my heart.