
A decade or more ago, I used to suffer from chest pains. Once, when I was travelling as a passenger in a car, it was so severe I asked the driver to take me straight to hospital. She looked sceptical, but I insisted, so she acquiesced and took me to Princess of Wales in Bridgend, where they did a battery of tests. They kept me in.
“Just as a precaution” the doctor said. She was a young, pretty woman with unfortunate hips and a kind manner that seemed genuine. By that time I was dying for a cigarette, but they had already confiscated those, along with my clothes, shoes, money, and watch. I had abandoned my pre-rolled joint in the car park, anticipating this and spent my time wondering if someone had picked it up before the summer rain shredded it into nothing. They let me keep my phone, which for once was charged to hilt.



