Morbidity

It was the first Monday of the week, there being several dotted around just to trip one up. With some trepidation I made my way to the Harley Street "Wellness" Clinic. It caused me no end of panic on my way there; that they had slowly shifted the term from "Medical" to "Wellness"- not simply the absence of illness but a positive state of good health. It seems unfair that they should raise the bar so, but unfortunately I do not make the rules (rest assured, doctors will be first against the wall when the revolution comes).

I was slightly disappointed to find my check-up was to be supervised by a nurse as opposed to a doctor. Somebody had paid good money for this and I felt short-changed. She took me through a series of grueling tests, extracting blood and urine. I was then informed that my body's ability to react to cardiovascular stress would be tested. The nurse claimed this would involve me lying down with a heart rate monitor attached to my navel, followed by zestful stimulation at some random moment. I feared she would pull a Smith & Wesson on me while I was forced to sprint on a treadmill. No firearms were brandished but I did have to jump off the bed in the most alarming fashion.

Simultaneously great swathes of data were being collected by an angry IBM in the corner of the room. This personal information will, no doubt, be passed on to the highest bidder in some dingy underground cock-fighting ring to Nigerians so they can manufacture my biometric details.

When the battery of terrifying and emasculating tests had reached their conclusion I was ushered towards the computer which began spitting out red warning signs. My anti-oxidants were decent enough but I was "high risk" for pretty much everything else.

The nurse told me I would be stumbling into my thirties with diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure and possibly cancer. This is surely the moment where they would cross-sell me a weekend at their all-inclusive spa. No spa offers came. Instead some vague exercise routine was scrawled on the back of a "Wellness" pack and I was given a bottle of water, a granola bar and a banana. I was then shoved out into the street, index finger still bleeding from the blood test.

I thoroughly recommend that all Post-Newt readers remain blissfully ignorant and stay away from medicine.

On a cheery note, I hear Dogtooth is roaming around the Pembrokeshire coast with a sack full of billiard balls looking for theists. Good luck, they're fast.