Following a conversation with HelenFin last night, I’ve been trawling through my sent messages log on my mobile phone. Messages were sent to various people, mostly female. I’m sure context is everything. Unfortunately, these messages have no context any more…

Have a drink for me and enjoy your vibrating sensibilities

Thanks! Remind me to have a good alibi when you next get rope burn…

You mean I’d look better in Madagascar than in a Bonnie Tyler video?

Today we get lesbian seduction, marriage, adultery and declaring war on the lady in waiting

I’ve got 6 bottles of SlimFast milkshakes and two bags of Polish cherry flavour “jaffa cakes”…

Have the acts eaten? They keep following me, staring at me like they’re wondering what my feet taste like.

Noooo! I’m losing my perversity!

Newmarket is scary… I feel like I’m being followed my munchkins on horseback…

What’s the cross country assault course thing they do with horses?

Tell him that I’ll only charge him half price if he keeps you for three months [How do I always seem to end up joking that I'm my friends' pimp?]

Damn. BBC says hookers are only £15 quid now. There goes the profits…

Nice green or “pants left in wash” green?

I’m assuming “shake it all about” is not an option…?

Do you want to put on your comfortable shoes and join in the perving then…?

No, no burns but the glass got rather warm.

I learnt everything from the cat. And the intertubes.

The four horsemen of the Apocalypse : Chronos, Telecoms, Valet and Hattie.

Fashion still runs in 200 year loops, right? The buxom beer wench look needs to come back…

I now have this image of a small gold plated clown desperately hanging on to a chain, terrified it will fall into a sweaty cave of Primark bra and metalic silver boob tube, its little arms and legs flailing every time the world takes a Breezer fuelled stagger for a dark alleyway…

No… Pimping is immoral. I’m merely talking about selling you on to an exploited existence as a captive circus freak. Morally much cleaner…

My only VC experience was a PVC who got confused by people being honest.

My fledgling sense of tact has just been chucked off a cliff and expected to fly…

So, where do you come from? Where has your family gone?

According to this little flash effort, my family surname is down to 4 in a million in the UK. We’re densest (shh you) in a region of New Zealand, but otherwise unheard off in the country. And in the UK we’re mainly in Liverpool and Cardiff.

How does your surname compare…?

Firstly, I’ve just realised that roundup is the name of the weed killer I can still smell on my arms. I think I need to go scrub a couple of lays of skin off before I go to bed.

Right, so then, what has happened in the world of me?

My doctor’s stuff that I was obsessing about was as scary as it could be but in ways I hadn’t anticipated. My heart seems to be fine and my glucose response is fine, so it looks like heart was a false alarm (even if my BP is high) but my results came back with fucked liver enzymes. Seeing as how Pop’s pancreatic cancer was diagnosed from “fucked liver enzymes” this didn’t scare me at all. Oh no…

Apparently the likely cause is either random variations (so a retest on wednesday) or fatty liver, which sounds highly pleasant. So more tests on Wednesday, a week for them to remember what to do with blood and then back to see the doc and try (again) to get an increase in meds. It’s not looking promising, but I think I need them to stop my stomach lining from eating itself or me killing the boss. Considering how I warned him I wasn’t doing overtime and not doing stress, he’s not exactly made things easy for me.

Last night was fun. HelenFin came round for a little celebration and we hit the town for a night of drunken debauchery. Well… kindof. Not nearly enough alcohol was drunk and too much time was spent talking about life, the universe and everything, and not nearly enough time staring at behinds. I tell you, her tastes are slipping… not only was there very little pleasant scenery, there was a surprising lack of slappers to be spotted too. So we retired to an old man’s pub and drank there til midnight.

’twas a great night and much of the world was put to rights. When I take my rightful role as benevolent dictator of the Commonwealth, I think I may have found my minister for ethics and alcohol.

Many conclusions were reached. The most conclusive one being that no-one in their right mind should be friends with anyone who even knows a larper, D&Der or roleplayer (ahem…), but that it would be quite cool to go to a Renaissance Fair and run about like a prat in silly clothing. My only problem is that I’d spend all my time pretending to be Brian Blessed

As most of you will know, I’m rather uncaring when it comes to my own health. I tend to ignore medical issues and anything that does turn up tends to be ignored.

But I’m crapping myself about the test results that I’m due tomorrow. My fasting glucose somehow turned into a complete cardiovascular and liver enzyme workup complete with an ECG. This isn’t a great sign.

The doc asked if I had any important family history… “Well, my father had diabetes and died of a diabetes related heart attack about six months before his replacement artery was predicted to fail, losing him at least one leg. My grandfather has had a long series of minor heart attacks, has angina and is currently refusing to die of pancreatic cancer. My grandmother has OldTimers, emphysema and asthma. My mother is an unknown quantity apart from the fact she’s an alcoholic. Oh, and my brother has high BP too.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then”, she replies.

Something tells me that the answer is either going to be diabetes (hardly a shock) or a heart problem. I already know I have high (but not dangerous) cholesterol, so it would hardly be a shock.

Moving up the morbidity stakes (what with this being such a cheery post so far) I’ve quite liked the idea of a heart attack as a way to die. Do it properly and it’s fast and the pain is major but brief. Pretty much the only other alternative is blowing a good sized blood vessel in the brain for speed and pain. And either of them let you joke about dying aged 90 whilst being ridden by an 18 year old nymphet…