As part of my individual rehabilitation programme, I've been issued with my very own Heart Manual (Post MI Edition).
It's not as romantic as it sounds...

This is how it works. There is a chapter a week.  Each week I should read a new chapter and learn how to reduce my risk factors by eating healthily, reducing stress and generally leading a righteous life. 

Exercise routines suitable to my level of recovery are given for each week.

As my manual points out, since I've ended up in posession of this manual Someting Has Been Going Wrong. It might be an extremely good plan to quit with the eye rolling and stick to the programme..
In a whole new spirit of total cooperation, therefore, I'm following the manual to the letter.

I'm doing the exercises.

Step 1
Complete exercise routine as follows:-

1. March on spot for 30 seconds
2. Bend knees 5 times
3. Raise arms above head 5 times
4. Step onto bottom stair and back again 5 times
5 Sit on chair and get up with arms crossed 5 times.

Step 2
Sigh

Step 3
Reassure the dog.  From day ten I should be walking 50 yards from the house.


 

Sometimes, sometimes, just sometimes my life runs like the well oiled machine it really is. A doctor’s appointment at 9 meant I could drop the cherub off at school to make sure he got there in time for his exams, his Big Standard Grade exams.
See, all grown up and efficient!
And that's me, not the Cherub..

I am,  in fact, so efficient that I have booked a doctors appointment a mere two days after first feeling chest pains (pfftt.. getting old or what? really need to give up smoking…ohh, dizzy and not well, Jesus I’m going to look stupid sitting on the wet grass here).
Have I ever mentioned I hate hypochondriacs?

I am so efficient, that for a change I am not late for the doctor’s appointment.

For a change I’ve even factored in the time I’ll need to wait and collect the New Drugs I expect the doctor to give me.   For tis a little known fact how slowly the chemist ladies move, and how long it takes them to pile through the first methadone prescriptions of the day).

Except the doctor doesn’t give me a prescription.  He writes a letter to A&E.  This is a precaution, something to do with internal wranglings within the NHS, you know, coulda, shoulda, woulda been the Chest clinic, but first A&E.
Ha! See how good this is? I’m helping maintain funding for our local A&E, and getting another hour off work. 
A quick text to work “They’ve just sent me to A&E, might not be in till lunchtime”
A&E doesn’t look like it needs any more visitors when I get there.   But then some of the visitors are policemen so they probably don’t count.
 
My wee Lithuanian nurse does an ECG, takes blood, and is apologetic as she waves me off back t the general waiting area, “If dere is anythink wrong we will call you soon, but it may be  awhile (shrug, pfft) dere is no more exam rooms!”
Well she put my file in the wrong pile.  I’m called back before I’ve found a seat in the waiting room.
Before you can say “Myocardial Infraction”, I have my own trolley in an examination room, a hospital gown, a second  and third EGC, more blood taken, an, X Ray – yeah, and a Cardiac Nurse explaining to me that I have had a heart attack.
Which is nuts.
This is a heart attack.

This is me.  Feel free to spot the couple of hundred differences..


I argued the toss then texted work again.  “They say I’ve had a heart attack. Probably safe to say I won’t be in later today”

Yes, yes, yes, I know, it's been quiet round here lately.
One reason would be that they don't have wi-fi over at St James infirmary - where I was admitted following a wee heart attack.

Well I've been released back into Community Care.
Watch this space. We'll have twelve weeks or so recuperation...

Over at the Extremely Eminent and Respectable Institute of Edinburgh (EERIE), we are a group of highly educated people, who adhere to the strictest codes of confidentiality and professionalism in all that we do.

Except when it comes to payroll.

Our payroll is run in -house by the twinkly, gregarious, ever fragrant Kurt.

Whoever decided that Kurt was the person to run the in house payroll was obviously having an off day as far as adhering to strictest codes and etc. was concerned. The decision having been made though, presumably he remains posting salaries since the alternative would be to upset him.

They haven't noticed he's already upset.

There's only so long I can ignore the theatrical sighs and shuffling of paper at the next desk
........ what's up?
Oh nothing...just going through this shit about the pay rise....
??? Pay rise???? What pay rise??
Oh just the wee 4 per cent pay rise for managers....
Managers get 4%???
Mmmm hmmmm
We get 1.5 and they get 4%???
Oh unless you're a director - (passing over the spreadsheet) how'd you like that for Christmas??
Great, now we're all upset.

For the record, we do not do Mother's Day chez Mace.
Today this blog is a schmaltz free zone.

I spent my formative years with my own mother... and my mother does Mothers' Day Big time. No really Big Time. The cards have to be big enough, the presents expensive enough.
That's right cards and presents, one from each child. Or else... or else there is a Wall of Sulk.

Luckily said children could share on cooking the meal, or taking her out. Tsk, even my mother would have trouble eating two breakfasts in bed.

I digress. Let's just say, as a result of years of grief over a manufactured day of schmaltz, the Cherub has strict orders as to both the card (homemade), and the present (cost = nil).

To be honest, most years the Cherub's Mother's Day present to me is simply to accompany me to my mothers. Since, obviously, being a grandmother doesn't mean you don't get a Mothers' Day card (big) and Mothers Day present (expensive).

This year, though my mother is on holiday.

Can you improve on a bunch of daffs (wrapped in newspaper) and an afternoon tea at the local overpriced farm cafe?
Maybe a photo?

No. Nearly a perfect day then.