I lay in the MRI scanner, pondering life and feeling relieved that I'm not claustraphobic.
The nurses had thoughtfully given me a list of music from which to select while the machine did its stuff. I have to confess that Norah Jones leaves me a little cold, Robbie Williams just annoys me and Radiohead seemed a tad inappropriate for a machine designed to detect various growths or tumours likely to leave one disabled or dead.
They wouldn't let me play my selected CD (the very excellent Garden State soundtrack recommended by this person) so I selected 'Hits from the 80s' - I am, after all, a child of the 80s. I waited for the wave of nostalgia.
Instead, I was greeted by a wave of nausea as track after track of Phil Collins washed over me. I began to fervently hope that I'd inadvertantly swallowed something metallic earlier in the day which could burst, Alien-like, out of my stomach while the magnet did its stuff and end the suffering. No such luck. When the music finally turned to David Bowie, the scan was over and the nurse was manhandling me out of the narrow tube.
And all of that reminds me; can I request all those writing blogs refrain from recommending books or CDs? Particularly compilation CDs like the one above, which I listen to and then end up having to source CDs by the various artists. My credit card can't stand it. Really - it can't.
