There must be something in my beer at the moment, because things keep going wrong with my temple-like body.
In the wake of my recent hugely attractive bout of gastroenteritis, I developed traffic light finger - I mentioned at the weekend that there was a problem.
I say traffic light finger because it started off red, went very yellow and - after catching it on the train on the way home tonight, causing seepage - it's now gone green. I think that's probably a good sign.
Last week, I was forced to go to the doctor with what I suspect is a damaged stomach muscle, a remnant of my failed attempt to win the Great North Run. The doctor had a poke, told me he had absolutely no idea what was wrong and sent me home to die. Possibly.
And before that, I had - and still have - an abscess on my tooth. So I went to see my dentist, Miss Shitt. She too had a poke, said the tooth would have to come out - and also sent me home to die.
A fun aside from my ongoing travails was when Miss Shitt noticed my new gnashers. If you've read my pointless dribblings for an extended stretch, you may know that I've travelled back home to Coleraine several times over the past 18 months to see my pals Robert and Rhonda and get a lot of dental work done.
Despite being in to see her several times over this period, I've managed to keep all of this secret from Miss Shitt. But, when I saw her a fortnight ago, she noticed. And she was shocked. So she asked where my new teeth came from. I told her they'd grown back. She didn't believe me. So I told her the truth. She wasn't happy. That might explain why she sent me home to die.
Despite all of the above, I hope to be around for a little while yet.
