After they kick you out of the hospital bed, the tyrants convince you to start physical re-habilitation. For me, an expert and accredited couch potato of the first order, this is a daunting task. For six weeks we are frog-marched into the gym while evilly smiling black-shirted guards blow whistles in your face for the good of your health. Ok, well, maybe I'm exaggerating. A bit. They don't actually, really, wear black shirts. Afterwards I'm knackered, but apparently healthier.
Below are some pictures of the torture, smuggled out but don't ask how.
Jo Thomas, in the white shirt, is head Commandant in charge of making sure our hearts beat fast enough. Gina Smith, in the blue shirt and headset with voice amplification set to 11, is Obersturmfuher in charge of shouting and encouragement.
Yes, I'm being flippant. The fact is, this is helping me and I do appreciate it. Honest. No really, honest.
Lack of exercise BHA (Before Heart Attack) was a precursor to the event. I'm not fat, I don't smoke and I drink rarely. And I thought I was reasonably fit. I thought I could do strenuous work when needed just as if I was still 21. Wrong. Suddenly doing heavy lifting and carrying, macho style, did me in. So if, like me, you're pushing the wrong side of 50 and aren't particularly fit, you now have the perfect excuse to NOT suddenly clear the loft/garden/garage etc. Because it might well kill you ...
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