Throaty-metal!  My life unfurled briefly before me this afternoon, tickled to claustrophobic demeanour by the pinpricks of a metal bit in my throat. Tearstained and bloodrushed eyes glared back at me as I carefully gauged the dimensions of the tiny passage  to a tight-holed hell I was on. "Not like this," I said to myself. "Not bloody like this".

As I write this hours later, I try quickstepping my  way  away from the  memory prompts of  the above episode. In vain!  Turning forty does not strum the tunes of blithe metal-swallowing, it-cant-hurt-me and how-bad-can-it be insouciance. My mind tripping into a throat-clawing panic had the big four zero to thank for. The next guy I hear saying 'you have to take care of your health now that you are forty' is getting buggered by my metal-tipped boots. I wish for myself a little carefreeness when it comes to my health. Turning forty should be played out with a prescription of  the altogether elusive chill pill.