"Casualty"

So over the course of my career I've managed three separate appearances in "Doctors" on BBC1. First of all cutting my hand on a rusty saw while visiting a father who was suffering from pigeon fancier's lung. Secondly playing an attention seeking angina sufferer with a cancer laden wife, and finally my most challenging  role of all, a heterosexual schoolfriend of Diane Keene who was trying to woo her again after 30 years.

In my corporate work I have had hundreds of illnesses for doctors training courses all over the country. Mercifully my real-life encounters with hospitals have been few and far between. However last night Mr Howle and I nearly ended up appearing in the next series of the fabulous Channel 4 programme "24-hours in A and E"

 A casual comment from a well-meaning friend before Christmas about an increase in the number of creases on my ear, evidently thought to be a sign of proclivity to heart problems, had made me think about my health. In four weeks I will be 56 years of age. I've had friends who have died younger than me, so the air of probability smells stronger each year.

I promised myself one of those Well Man health checks in January, but felt somewhat aggrieved that I could pay £2-£300 for something I felt my GP should probably be checking anyway. Don't get me started on the subject of our GP surgery. The Internet does not have space. Suffice it to say that their incompetence, their lack of welcome, their inability to communicate properly, and the general feeling that everybody in the surgery would prefer that you weren't there, means that for me, a visit to the GP is always a last resort.

Having said that I had booked an appointment for this Wednesday morning. January's been a busy month, enjoyable, but busy. Recently on the career front there have been a couple of snubs.  A fringe production I was exceptionally keen on being part of didn't work out, and on Friday afternoon shortly after the divine Mr Howle  received some possibly very positive news about his future, my agent rang to tell me that the television show that was pencilled for March was now off.  Actually the programme is still going ahead, but they just decided to cut my character.  Add to this a few stressful dealings at the Actors Centre, and it's been a hard week.

For the last couple of nights after supper as I relaxed on the sofa I've had a low level of pain in the right side of my chest. A slight feeling of numbness and tingling on the skin in that area, but as I settled down to sleep each night it's disappeared and during the following day I have been unaware of it.

Last night that changed. The dull pain made its appearance shortly after Paloma Faith sang on the BAFTAs. I'm sure that's a coincidence, but it's certainly worth thinking about. It stayed there all evening, and was still there when we went to bed about 11.45pm. Rich has been suffering with a bad cough and chest all weekend, but in his normal style managed to turn over and hit the land of Morpheus in a matter of minutes. I settle down with Val McDermid on my Kindle to enjoy 35 minutes of serial killer antics. I put down the book, went to the bathroom, got back into bed and turned off the light - and was aware that the pain in my chest had not gone away. In fact, if anything, it had intensified. This was the beginning of two hours of trying to control my breathing, rearranging the pillows to get a different sleeping position, and eventually getting up and walking around the flat to try and ease the pain. Nothing worked.

The walk around the flat revealed that the road outside was now snowed over, the sight not inspiring hope of a quick trip to the hospital. I entered the symptoms on NHS direct. I'm wary about this as a method of diagnosis, but I was desperate. I was even more wary when at the end of my questions it flashed up in red "Call 999 for an ambulance now".

 It's a big decision to wake ones loved one from their sleep. Not one I took lightly at 1:55 AM. After his initial confusion that he'd been woken because he'd overslept, Rich showed why he does so well in all matters practical and work wise. We decided it was probably better to get a taxi, and indeed were heartened when the taxi firm said that they have one with us within three minutes. They did, and having pulled on my chavvest selection  of tracksuit bottoms and duvet coat, we got into the taxi. The taxi driver struggled with his English as much as he did with his driving. Within minutes it was clear that the car was not going to make it up Kirkdale,  and that there was little chance of us getting to Kings Hospital. Rich asked him if he was in the correct gear (and I thought, yes it was observant to point out that he wasn't even wearing a jumper on such a cold night) and I screamed at him that I was in pain. He answered that "yes,I was paying", and at this point it became clear to us that we had no option but to ask him to turn back. It wasn't his fault and he didn't charge us for the 200m trip up the road and back. As the taxi  turned round, Rich rang an ambulance.

We'd been back in the flat for, virtually, minutes when the first paramedic arrived. It may have been snowing out and there were terrible road conditions, but you absolutely could not question the response time. He was cheery, and he was efficient (And he had the extremely good taste  to be a fan of "Peep Show") and he was soon taking blood pressure, and shaving my chest in order to do an ECG. Two other paramedics arrived five minutes after him, and suddenly the intimate peace of our bedroom was shattered by tall  winter-weather clad men asking questions, and sticking things into, onto, but mercifully not up, me.

The ECG proved okay. They even gave us our own print out of it, but they took no delay in getting me  into the ambulance and into hospital. We were looked after with care verging on the VIP by the paramedic Robert, and arrived at an eerily deserted  A&E department at Kings Hospital in Camberwell at 3am. This is the very hospital where they film "24-hours in A and E" and in a bizarre coincidence they were to start filming their next series the very next day. As evidence of this, hanging from ceilings all over A and E were radio mikes and in every possible niche, you could find a small camera hidden.

Mercifully Mr Howle and I weren't asked to sign a release form for our performances as anxious patient and  partner to be broadcast. We were protected by staff from an abusive party going girl who was lying on a trolley and came out with the not wholly unoriginal line "What the fuck you looking at?"

The doctor we saw was great. Further tests were conducted with enormous speed, and the end result was that I have a strong heart, a clear chest, and good lungs. What did seem to have been the problem was some spasm or pain in my muscular skeleton. Along with relief,  I glowed with delight that my skeleton could indeed be termed muscular.

So I got the Well Man check after all. Just not at the time of my choosing, but then I didn't have to part with £400 to BUPA. Some strong painkillers eased  the discomfort, and eased me back into sleep on our return at 5:30 AM. I don't know how Mr Howle managed it, but he was long gone when I eventually awoke at 10 this morning. The evenings activities had the quality of a dream, until I noticed all the wet marks that three fully grown paramedics can bring onto the designer laminated floor of a bedroom. Further proof lay in the ECG printout which lay on my desk when I got into the study, and suddenly what had been a long, and one has to admit occasionally frightening night, seemed all too real.

A huge thank you to all those people who made that night easier. You do an amazing job, and people should realise that. For every party pissed potty mouthed girl,  there are an army of us out here who think you're wonderful.

We'll be tuning into the new series of "24-hours in A and E"  to see the displays of phenomenal humanity that the staff at Kings A&E bring to the screen.  Long may they continue to do so.