A while back I had a health scare. Even as I begin, I'm aware this already reads like something out of Take A Break magazine. All I can say is: don't worry, the story doesn't end with me marrying a transgendered pony and setting up a love nest in the New Forest in the face of frenzied local opposition. It's a tad less dramatic than that, but do stick with it nonetheless, as it promises to be a heartwarming tale of one myopic woman's journey from cynicism to, well, healthier cynicism.
It began with dizzy spells. Then, over a period of weeks, I started to feel increasingly faint. I would catch my breath while doing simple tasks. I would break into sweat and shake like a leaf. On the odd occasion, while climbing the stairs, I'd wobble and then fall over – like a Weeble in breach of its trade description.
Oh, and I had chest pains. Right slap-bang in the middle of my torso – which apparently, if you're going to have a pain in your chest, is the worst place to have it. I didn't know that. Up until that point, I had just assumed that I was harbouring a six-month-old burp, which would at some point decide it had been gestating long enough and release itself, loudly, into the world. Probably, knowing my luck, at a crucial mortgage-application meeting. Or a funeral.
