Not Quite Iron Man

Hardly anybody likes going to a hospital. That is about a clear a fact as you can make. The only exceptions are those who work there who take something from helping others, and sickos who get off on the pain of others and themselves.

Not being in that latter camp, it wasn't a thrill that I spent a couple of hours in the out patients clinic this afternoon. The reason being related to something that happened a couple of years ago, when I collapsed at work, had a seizure and wound up in hospital. Some tests later, the verdict seemed to be that it was a one-off. Great. Only it happened again last month.

A lot of people would have us believe that the government want the National Health Service sold off. It seems numerous politicians have connections to private health providers and with the media stating that entering a British hospital gives you a survival rate equal to a British solider on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, the future isn't looking too rosy right now.

The issue for me is, you don't appreciate it until you use it. I wonder how many MPs have had cause to use our NHS hospitals in recent years? Having done so, I'm glad they're there. When I keeled over in the street and some random stranger rang 999, an ambulance arrived, from which two lovely paramedics checked me out and lugged me off to hospital. Here, tests were ran and once it was established my brain wasn't leaking from my nose, I was sent home. All this for the cost of my monthly National Insurance contributions, which won't rise because I had to use the services.

To today, where I was informed that this second fit was a bit of a head-scratcher. As part of solution-seeking, it was proposed that a small monitor be fitted under the skin of my chest - a procedure that takes ten minutes. Initially, this sounded a little bit scary, I admit. I mean, cutting me open, even just a little? Urgh.

But then I thought about it some more. A piece of machinery inside my body - hey, that makes me a cyborg. Kind of. Alright, not much of one, but you've got to make the best of the situation, haven't you? Maybe I'll tell people I'm having an arc reactor fitted. While on the topic, I'd like to tell Stan Lee and Joss Whedon, if they are reading, that I'm more than happy to help out on the next Avengers flick if Downey Jnr becomes too much of a dick to handle.