The morning. Out from beneath the many, restrictively heavy quilts – this weather, eh‽ – and off to a hospital, to be imaged medically. (It’s fine – I am, happily, very much not on on the brink of death, or anything like that.) I am given a set of headphones, ostensibly for masking the noisy clangs and clunks of the medical imaging machinery, and relaying messages from medical professionals, but really so I can pretend to be a contestant on the Saturday evening quiz programme Eamonn Holmes used to present. Or a Cyberman.
I am heartened by this measure, but disappointed that Radio 2 is the piped-through sound of choice. Sort it out, Jeremy Hunt, I think. (I think “Andrew Lansley” at first, and he seems like a more deserving scapegoat, but apparently he’s no longer the Secretary of State for Health. Who knew?)
Of course, it’s not all bad, because the abominable Ken Bruce does prompt me to reflect on my frankly shocking lack of knowledge of the works of Suzi Quatro, and for that I am grateful. While I do not then proceed to do anything about it, I promise that I will. Well, probably not.
From the film Wilde, starring Stephen Fry (pictured).