I do not mean to be a hypocondriac and indeed consider myself to have quite a robust and sturdy constitution.
This does not however prevent me from getting worried sometimes on health issues.
There are fairly frequent media campaigns on matters of concern in well being and in self diagnosis for various maladies and complaints. I was encouraged, and rightly so, by my family to attend a Well Man Clinic a few years ago which revealed that I was clinically obese but had acceptable cholesterol and a lung capacity that sent the small cardboard tube contraption right across the room much to the amazement of the Practice Nurse when I simply exhaled. I challenged the weight issue on the basis that I believe the statistics to be from either wartime data when the population at large were not that large or, if on a European model, those puny and undersized mediterranean types.
As I get older there are a few aches and pains which I have decided to listen to and try to understand rather than fight and get all upset and depressed. Knees and hips have travelled plenty of miles and are bound to be a bit worn and abraded on cartiledge, muscle and tendon.
I did fall asleep a couple of weeks ago in a 48 year old foetal position which caused my left foot to be deprived of any circulation. As I jumped up startled by a sound in the house but mainly to hide the fact that I was dozing unofficially the foot just folded up in a classic dead leg and I crashed to the floor. Over the next 24 hours toes went black and blue from a very unnatural curling over. I actually thought for a moment that I had broken the little digits as I am certainly not double jointed. The family heard my collapse but chose to ignore it, even though micro-fragments of ceiling plaster will have been released to cascade down on the avid TV watchers.
Us men of a certain age are also pamphleted on the merits of checking out our dangly downers for any abnormalities. I admit to doing this quite regularly, as is prudent, although the people on the top deck of the 66 Bus, when it passes my house, are obviously not up to date with the latest medical recommendations. More fool them is what I say.
Anyway, my current concern springs from a recent radio broadcast. What was mentioned did hit home.
I firmly believe that, on the balance of probabilities and given the hard facts, I am a Viking.
Consider the physical facts, oh ,and my surname Thomson is a bit Scandinavian.
I have green eyes. Not too rare but more commonly found accompanied by red hair. My Father was a ginger and it is thought that the colouration skips a generation. My eldest daughter has pledged to have any red headed offspring adopted if she has the misfortune of having one. The ginger congregation has done well to spread the myth that they are artistic and creative and that they are the new blonde. Very clever. Adversity as we all know does breed considerable ingenuity and guile. If I let myself go a bit of a weekend there can be seen a slight ginge tinge in my stubble and certainly in any unruly eyebrow or nasal hair that escapes scrutiny.
I also love all things Scandinavian.
I was only really at ease driving a Volvo.
I found Ikea initially fascinating and stylish but now rather bland and a bit yesterday. This is likely to be due to some dilution of the ethos of Ikea to meet the market demands of the rest of europe and not because of a lack of flair from the very talented designers.
TV dramas and especially crime thrillers grounded in Copenhagen, Malmo or Trondheim are of great interest to me and I revel in hearing the tone and flow of the native language whilst concentrating hard on the subtitles.
I am drawn to women of Scandinavian bone structure and my wife is a clear illustration of this strong genetic trait.
I like swedes. They are amongst my favourite vegetables, boiled and mashed with butter and pepper.
After they knocked England out of the European Championships I supported Denmark out of a strange feeling of brotherhood.
I like being on the water, especially stood at the prow of a boat. This could of course be confused with admiring the acting talents of that Di Caprio guy.
Pillaging, or as they have restyled-it, car booting is a particular favourite activity.
One of my favourite movies was The Vikings with Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas from 1958 although I was shocked by how rubbish it was when recently shown on TV. I had of course built it up to epic and classic status in my mind and was quite embarassed after watching it with my son. Lame or what?
So, the evidence is very strong to suggest that I am of Viking descent. This does explain certain events and emotions during my formative years such as liking pickled fish, snow, smokey atmospheres, trolls, Daim Bars and wearing sandals in winter.
I am reluctant to go for the test to determine within reasonable probability my genetic composition because I could not stand the disappointment that my name is not, according to one of those find your Viking name sites, Petr Sheeptipper.
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