I went to the doctor this morning to find out how long I've got to live. I wanted to know if it's worth me making a birthday list, or if I'm just wasting my time. And the bad news for Lisa is that she is going to have to buy me a present. In fact, in a shocking twist of gargantuan proportions, I seem to be ok.

Having looked myself in the eye last Friday and found a bloody mess, my years of expert training (I once stayed awake during a lecture) told me that I probably have undiagnosed hypertension. But apparently not. Having been subjected to a rigorous examination this morning, I was informed by my GP that I have the blood pressure of a perfect physical specimen. Which is surprising when you look at me.

Given that my retinal haemorrhage isn't a symptom of high blood pressure, I asked her what might have caused it. She responded by suggesting that as I know a few ophthalmologists, I should probably ask them instead. It was a case of screener, heal thyself.

She did ask if I lead a particularly stressful life, so I told her that I exist in a world where the Queen is an Elvis impersonator...

... my daughter looks like John Major...

... and I'm seeing spots before my eyes...

... but other than that, not particularly.

She has, however, booked me in for some further tests. I whinged so much about my general feelings of death and illness that she agreed to an ECG and a blood test. So I'm going back in two weeks' time. She told me to fast for twelve hours beforehand. I don't think it's vital for the blood test; she just wants me to lose some weight.