I was at the hospital again yesterday, and it's official. I've been declared a national disaster and the relief fund should be in operation any day now, which will save me having to type out the begging emails.

For the uninitiated, prepare to be bored.

In January I suffered a suspected heart attack that turned out be a pulled muscle. When they said, "Do you want the good news or the bad news first," I opted for the good news. "It's not a heat attack," they said. "So what's the bad news?" I asked. "You'll have to pay for a taxi home." That particular bill almost gave me the heart attack I hadn't had in the first place.

While they said I hadn't had a proper wobbler, they suspected angina and in March I had a coronary angiogram. They drill a hole in your leg, insert a pipe and work their way through to you heart so they can have a proper look at it. While this is going on, you can watch it on a TV screen. I kept an eye on it in case they found my wallet while they were on their way to my ticker.

The news was good. There was nothing wrong with my heart. On the downside, I would need a fresh place to hide my wallet.

After this little procedure, I developed a large haematoma. (I love using these medical words. They give the impression that I know what I'm talking about.) This huge mass of blood collected in a place where I wouldn't wanna show my mum. That settled in a week but suddenly I was in an awful lot of pain. I couldn't walk properly, my hip hurt, my knees, always a couple of little achers, hurt even more and I felt like I had been kicked where it would hurt most ... my wallet.

This has gone on for months and I've spent so much of NHS money that income tax will have to rise tuppence in the pound just to cover the cost. I still cannot walk and as a result, I cannot work.

Yesterday, I had a Doppler scan. This thing monitors the blood flow in your veins and arteries and again you can watch it on telly. It even picks up your pulse from any point on your body and broadcasts it. Like a rap beat. Thumpa ... thumpa ... thumpa.

The nurse asked, "oh, what's that big thing there," and the beat accelerated. Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa. She'd found my wallet, too.

The surgeon said there was nothing wrong with my blood flow, but my cash flow needed attention, whereupon he helped himself to a couple of fivers.

The upshot of this medical malarkey is a new unified theory of my pain. The haematoma put pressure on the iliac and femoral nerve and screwed them up. So notwithstanding all the pain, I now have a couple of nerve in need of psychoanalysis.

"What can we do about it?" I asked.

"It depends how many more of these you have at your disposal," said the surgeon holding up the fivers he had already claimed.

"None," said I.

"In that case," he said, "it will either get better or you'll be taking stronger painkillers and walking like Long John Silver - minus parrot, natch - for the rest of your natch."

I was determined to consult my GP, but he's off for a couple of weeks. His wife's having a baby. Inconsiderate is what I call it. I mean, it's not my fault she's having a baby, is it? (Answer: no it isn't.)

So that's it. I am now officially in pain for the rest of my life. And it's not just pain. I have to limp, too.

All I can say is it's a good job I'm skilled at multi-tasking.