Early in Spetember 2026 I visited the Turkish Barber in my town. There are all sorts of rumours as to why just about every town centre in the UK has at least one of these establishments. The general consensus is they are drug money laundering places. One of the reasons they are ‘cash only’.

Any way the men who work there, all of whom drive expensive looking classy cars, are friendly and sometimes they even give a good haircut. The following day I was embarking on a cycling holiday in France so I was in good spirits. My haircut done, a surprisingly good one it has to be said,the barber enquired as to whether I would like a shave. I heard myse lf say yes and soon I was smothered in lather my face scraped then wrapped in towls a machine pumped sweetly smelling steam all around me. The barber massaged my shoulders attended to every minute sprouting of beard he could find then creamed and finally sprayed my face with a rather strong after shave. I have never had a closer shave and I was suprisingly cheered by the experience which manifested itself in me tipping the man a significant percentage of the total tally for my visit. He was delighted I felt good, win win!

That night we took the boat from Plymouth to Roscoff. It was bad experience as were nearly last of the boat and we queued for upwards of an hour at customs. I am not very good at hydration at the best of times but on this trip I seemingly ‘excelled’ (definitely not the right word). The drive to the South of France is a long one and it was very hot a ‘canicule’ declared indeed. It would appear that as I drove something sinister was happeing in my body.

We arrived in the South of France and to be honest I did not feel great. For some reason I bought some French Bread that was encrusted with seed and had some sort of unrefined flower as its core constituent. After several days I became progressively more breathless while exercising. I had to stop on my bike and I found myself quite a long way out in the sea clutching on to a bouy as I tried to suck in enough air. All very strange. Liz suggested I visit a doctor but instead I decided that I knew exactly why I was breathless. It was surely some sort of allergic reaction to the French bread and its seeds. Liz went to the pharmacy and she got several versions of tablets for treating gas. My stomach had become distended as my efforts to breathe effectively were causing me to hyperventilate. The tablets work. I burped and farted regularly and we both celebrated my diagnosis.

Now looking back how stupid was I ignoring some pretty alarming signals. Things got worse, climbing stairs was unbelieveably hard as I gasped for air. This cant be happening I thought. Then on the Sunday Morning we went for a walk and out side the Picasso museum in Antibes I collapsed and turned blue I am told. As luck would have it two off duty French Firemen saw my predicament and took charge. They summoned help and soon an ambulance arrived closely followed by an emergency doctor. I was sweating profusely struggling to breathe and a kaleidoscope of colour assaulted my brain. Linked to oxygen I was soon speeding through the streets of Antibes syrens blazing. If you read on I will tell you about what went through my mind at this time I think it will cause you to reflect on your own life.

I arrived at the hospital was in a scanner within minutes and a diagnosis made. I had a had a significant pulminory embolism and the vein from my heart to my lungs had become blocked. I was put in intensive care linked on to various machines bleeping and buzzing which happens to be also my own personal worse nightmare. I had several drips administered to my arms and soon a doctor arrived. Now I dont know if you have noticed but The French have a thing about brown cardboard boxes. If you watch the Tour de France say or indeed any major sporting event you will see people holding up sections of carpoard boxes with hand written salutations in felt tip. Allez France, Bon Courage Guy etc. Well the doctor produced a large piece of carpboard box and proceeded to draw on it to demonstrate the severity of my condition. I have not been able to watch it yet as it was a genuinely traumatising experience but Liz, who was wearing her meta sunglasses, actually recorded the ‘presentation’ in full. ‘The right side of your heart is under severe stress we need to sort the blockage out”!!

Now as I have just mentioned the whole experience was traumatic and I hope writing the fact down may allow me to process events better. Of course as in all things there was humour too. I was looked after by a delightful nurse in the ICU of the emergency department where I was to stay for two days. When it came to my bed bath she was most considerate in the way she allowed me to sponge my ‘parts’ whilst holding a ‘privacy sheet’ up in front of her and demeurly turning her gaze away. In very sharp contrast to this experience around 15 minutes later she returned with a ‘friend’. Each of then was carrying an electric razor and with the door of my room wide open to the corridor the bed sheets were whipped off and the two of them went to work! There was advice each to the other and soon I was, to put it bluntly, devoid of all traces of hair ‘down below’!

Being in French hospital has its challenges beacuse however good i might think my French might be my vocabulary does not extend to medical procedure. After a day waiting for what they told me was a’test’ nothing happened and I was moved to the ‘cardiac ICU.’ My room was not very nice and given the outside temperature out side was in the high 30s the fact that the room air conditioning vent was blocked was a problem. The window was opened in the evening but a ‘Flock’? of mosquitoes entering resulted in this idea being quickly shelved and the room was again sealed.

The following morning I was wheeled to the operating theatre. The anaesthetist was a busy man and repeatedly took calls from his mobile phone whose music was the theme of ‘Barnhams circus’-the very sound of which will make me twitch for the rest of my life. The surgeon, a famous cardiology expert was a woman and she told me not to worry and ‘all the theatre team speak excellent English’. As it happened that was the last word of English I heard during the procedure, only machine gun French of which I understood nothing. I later learned that delay in my operation was because it was only the second time such a procedure had been done in recent times. As such a man who I assumed was a registrar or similar performed the job watched and advised by ‘herself’. There was an audience too of perhaps 12-I assume medical students -seated appropriately in a sort of mini grandstand. I was filmed too. I though of querying my privacy rights but soon all such thought were gone as the sheet covering me was removed and there I lay totally naked !! In my defence it was extremely cold in the room and if you consult any decent AI agent they will inform you as to why certain parts of your anatomy shrink when under severe stress-fight and fright and all that. Anyway there I lay when a curious thing happened. On my right ankle I have a small Ironman tattoo. I think it is cool but the truth is no-one has ever remarked on it, ever, until now that is. A very pretty young woman in the front row of the grandstand pointed at my leg and reminicent of my crossing of several finishing lines she declared ‘you are an Ironman’. It was embarrassing really as I wanted to seem cool but there I was naked and all and no-one else, apart from the young woman, took any notice at all.

A catheter was threaded up through my body, through my heart, and the offending blockage was zapped.! Aplogies were offered for the cold temparature in the room and I was swathed in blankets and returned to my room with the Catheter still in place linked to two bottle of colourles liquid which apparently were there to finish off the job by delivering dissolving agent to the offending area. I was told, I thought, that the results would be known in around 9 hours when the bags of liquid would be empty. I was told to lie perfectly still and under no circumstances to move my leg. All very well but my swaddling clothes and a now room temperature of around 38 degrees made for a spectacularly unpleasant day. What is more there were no ‘results’ to wait for as all but me had appreciated that the zapper had done its work and the event had been recorded on camera.Thankfully, and how I would like to thank her, a new nurse who had lived and worked in San Fransisco came on duty who spoke good English put my mind at rest and even supplied me with a sort of valium thing that gave me the first nights rest I had had in days. The following day various tests were done on me. A blockage was found in my calf muscle due to dehydration and inactivity apparently on the car journey-a DVT it is called (deep vein thrombosis) A part of the clot had broken off and the rest is history.

Five days after the teryfying event a doctor arrived in my romm with about a dozen students. He was abrupt and spoke in French but at the end of what I took to be a presentation to the group he announced that ‘you can go home”! Before I could say anything he and his followers were gone.

For some reason I was told that as long as I could walk unaided around the room, at 4 pm sharp, I would be allowed out.

At this point I must tell a short story as to something that is so French it is funny but also enlightening as to why so much about France is superb. On my second day the hospital ‘nutritionist’ had visited me as my entry form showed me to be a really rare thing in France “A Vegan”! Not that it matters but she was immaculately dressed in her uniform in great shape and very pretty. She listened attentively as I answered her various questions as to how a Vegan gets protein etc from food. ‘I do not know anything about Vegan’ she said ‘but I will look it up’. The next couple of days the food presented to me was appalling. Boiled rice, carrot puree and some broccoli that was so soft it had almost become a sort of pulp. On my final day I sat on my bed feeling very weak and nervously awaiting my ‘qualifying for escape walk’ when the door opened and my luch was delivered. It was an amazing! A platter of dishes all seasoned with complimentary sauces a menu too, clearly showing ingredients and their nutritional values. The woman had done her homework and enlisted the help of the hospital chef. Only in France I think amazing!.

So now to the important bit. As I mentioned earlier part of the reason to write this peace was to help me process easily the most traumatic days of my life.

As I lay on the ambulance floor I faced the idea that it might soon be the end of my life. A sort of kaleidescope of memories and emotions assaulted my being. Of course the chief of these was just how lucky I am to have had Liz alomgside me during the bulk of my life. She has laughed with me, supported me, faced challenges with me and been the very best of friend any one could ask for. I did not feel sad exactly if I was not to see her again -just an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Did I think of my bank balance? No. Did I think of days in the office? No. Did I think of those people who had caused me grief in my life, those who had hurt me in some way, No.

I was filled with a sense of wonder for the world as a whole. An almost Godly experience. I thought of beautiful and mighty mountains, of time when I had skied on perfect pistes. I though of the powerful sea and memorable swims I had taken. All vivid memories, however fleeting, in my ‘brain show’. Cycle rides and mountain tops, finishing lines and senses of elation. Then came a whole ‘cast list’ of faces of the people I had shared those experiences with. Those who hade made me laugh those who had supported me those who had shown me love. The bad guys and the sad things I had experienced did not get a look in.

The day after my operation A wonderful woman called Rachel Stewart called me. She is a religous woman. She simply informed me I had been given a ‘sign’ and ‘A second chance’, ‘make sure you use it’ she said. I will.

A very special friend who I will not name called me to simply say he loved me. Another special friend who, for various reasons, I had had lost contact with called me and I sobbed with joy.

You see we are all blessed in our own ways but life is such that it is way to easy to loose sight of all the good things all the good people and all the gifts you have been given. But as The Eagles song goes t’here aint no luggage racks on hearses’ so make sure you do your loving in the right direction while you can.

There is a corallary to all this. As I lay in the middle of the night alone in a dark room with monitors pinging all around me I made a plan. I have a magnificent shed in my garden built for me tby a friend to take advantage of a magnificent view and every centimeter of available space. It used to be filled with seldom used tools and equipment. No longer. It is now a bar or to my grandchildren a ‘resto pub”. It is called The ACE of CLUBS, a big sign proves it. In that place I hope to welcome some of the friends that swept across my memory on that journey across Antibes and thank them for the joy and memories that have accumulated to become my own ‘life story’. So if you are passing pop in and say hello. Entry is free as is the beer. There are no other entry qualifications because as a old neighbour once told me ‘the good guys know who they are’ you will be most welcome.

My son Tom flew out to eascort me home and to give support to his Mum. He did a wonderful job. I was pushed around various railway stations in a wheel chair. A very strange thing to see in the reflection of various windows. As luck would happen one of my favourite former members of the N1 Tri Club now lives in Antibes and he played a blinder arranging for our car to be quarantined awaiting recovery. Thanks Fred.

Some six weeks or so on now I am progressing well. Riding my exercise bike and walking on the sea front. Onwards and hopefully upwards.