Something's not right; I keep waking up in considerable pain. It appears that one of the most pleasurable activities in life - having a good old-fashioned sleep - is now permanently ruined by the fact that my back feels all twisty. After a few hours kip, I'll wake up at 2am unable to move to a more comfortable position. I moan a bit, arrange the pillows into a small pyramid and lie on that, then wake up again an hour later to rearrange stuff once more. Needless to say, I never feel quite good enough to cycle to work.
It's because of said problem I took myself to A&E on Thursday night. I used the magic words 'Chest Pain' to speed things up - after all, my chest was hurting too - and was raced through (for four hours) having my blood and urine tested, being wired to an ECG machine (I have a strangely slow pulse rate somehow), being X-rayed, and being treated by rather attractive and completely indifferent nurses who I flirted with while they did their utmost to seem repulsed.
The doctor who looked a bit like a pocket Hugh Grant and asked me awkward personal questions (what does cocaine have to do with a bad back?) pronounced me 'fine' and walked out seeming mildly stressed.
Nonetheless, I am still waking up feeling like the bastard son of Stephen Hawking and Christopher Reeve and I've got a terrible fucking notion that I'm gonna be stuck like this for life.
All this because of a fan? How is that even possible??? I spent last night on a Thames boat with a friendly bloke called Colin, bitching about our thirty-something ailments. I have never felt such a bond with a complete stranger before.
Oh, and my sixth and final stag is happening right now in East London. It would appear that I've overslept a little bit.