“Will you listen to my chest?” “What, it's 3 am!” “I know, but it's sore and I feel I'm catching my breath.” (So, no chance of sex then!) “Alright, alright, I'll get the stethoscope.” After clearing several layers of dust off it (the stethoscope that is, not the chest) and listening for the second time, I was still uneasy that all was not well. There was a difference between right and left lung. However, the clouding effect of yet another alcoholic Christmas night out blurred my ability to work out which lung was not quite right, or left . . . . . . I opted for masterly inactivity and reassured my wife that “everything sounded fine, dear.” I did fully intend to listen again in the morning (don't look at me like that, I did).

Three …