He's Electric.


It’s always good to experience something new (he says, hyperbolically) and today I did just that, by having an ECG. 

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Like anyone with a query, my first port of call was the world’s most faultless resource, Wikipedia. The 22nd word in their definition, ‘electrodes’, stood out like a sore thumb, leading to visions of cattle prods, or of Frankenstein’s monster being summoned to life. Thankfully, this didn’t perturb me, as I couldn’t either being offered on the NHS.

The nurse warned me when I came in that she may need to shave my chest, as the adhesive pads they use to attach the electrodes to the body don’t always stick to hair. She said this before I’d removed my shirt, so I must let off a musky testosterone-filled Tom Selleck-like vibe. Either that, or she was looking for an alibi for her manscaping fetish. Whatever the case, it turned out not to be necessary, which was a relief, as I didn’t want to leave all patchy. 
 
Even though it was completely painless, I couldn’t help but be a little tense. The more I became aware of this the more anxious I got; so much so, that I was worried I would scupper my readings. I tried to ease my mind by focusing on the Mr Men poster on the wall to my right, but it didn’t work, as it was just too busy; it was like a metaphor for the planet’s escalating population, though I may have been over-thinking it. At least I wasn't made to run on a treadmill, like Homer in The X-Files episode of The Simpsons; I wouldn't have wanted to mesmerise the nurse with my undulations.

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