Just got in to work, it's 10:25. My usual granary roll with bacon and brown sauce has hit the spot, my coffee glides down and warms my soul. I went up to St Mary's hospital in Paddington this morning to get my MRI scan done. My left ear has been playing up for a year now and the doctors couldn't find anything wrong. There is definitely something wrong in there... why else would I have the feeling, that unscratchable itch, that desire to reach inside and remove my inner ear, rip it out and put in a new shiny replacement part.

St Mary's is an old hospital, at least it feels old. The passages are narrow and uneven, they are more like tunnels that evolved into passages. The MRI unit is down in the basement, and I get the feeling of history, and death - the picture turns black and white and you can imagine what it must have been like 60 years ago. There is an air of history. The other feeling is one that is not as noble as sepia tone history. It's the Jacob's Ladder number, with dark corridors, the images of wounded soldiers and people in striped flannels turns into decaying spirits, tormented, rotting souls shaking violently and calling me from beyond.

A hospital bed is being wheeled about, the wheels, years old and squeeking, groaning under the constant use and abuse. Zoom in, fast and flash, a hazed picture, dark, bleached colors, the wheel starts to wobble and spasm, as broken wheels do - the floor is grimey and stained, perhaps years of blood, some of it looks fresh though, not fresh deep red, rather smudgy congealed brown, it's cold, I tense my shoulders and snug further into my jacket. My breath steams, I feel I'm going to black out, freeze-frame fall down and tumble, on my knees, my hands hit the floor and slip in something wet, saliva runs from my mouth, my throat gags and fills up, i manage not to vomit. Frantic squeek approaching me, jerking front left wheel on gritty floor, the stuttering wheel passes my face, a piece of meat, something, organ, is wedged and throbbing between the wheel and the frame, it leaves a trail, liver.

I find the MRI unit and speak to the delightful girl behind the desk. She is european of sorts and friendly enough but I can't help but think of desk-fools in the NHS as just being of varying degrees of lobotomy. I wait my turn, I can hear that clucking, cliking and grinding of the MRI scanner. I begin to feel sick, never thought I would find myself in this situation again. People in the wards, grey, staring blankly into nowhere, drugged and dreaming, unsure of how they came to this place, would they ever leave, if so, alive?

The scan was not as bad as I remembered. 15 minutes was all it took and I even managed to have a micronap, thanks to the earplug they gave me. My head was fastened into a holder, and a granulated voice send digitised instructions to me over the white noise. The earplug added to the distance, I think that's what sent me off. I have a date booked to get my hernia repaired on the 7th April and the anaesthetist wants the results of the MRI scan before that, in case they do find something, then they can kill two birds with one stone, can't blame the NHS for that. From time to time, and unfortunately only in times of emergency, you can hit slip-streams of efficiency in the NHS.

Dollar left for Barcelona this morning. She was very excited. Youth, true youth, blind youth, in a way can be defined as really not having any regard for the unknown, no fear, no respect. The older we get, the more important we think our decisions are, the more we realize how trivial our youthful fears and concerns were, no more time to give up as a sacrifice to the god of chance and exploration. Gambling time and distance travelled divided by mistakes made, his magic formula. The saddest thing is a scared youth. I felt scared for Dollar, she was fine, looking forward to the unknown - but I have had a good dose of the unknown, I was raised there, that's where I come from, I sometimes feel that's where I belong. We need tools to survive the unknown, and once you realise that the unknown is everywhere, the tools become more and more important. Our best tool is not intelligence, but skills, a career so to speak, how are we going to pay for the unexpected, no money, no decision, no power. I have at least had 2.5 to 3 careers so far, purveyor of murth, feeding people, teaching them to speak english, and then abandoning them altogether for a crossover into the darkside of computers. Dollar doesn't quite have the definition, I'm scared for the years of confusion that potentially lay ahead, the realization that your time to not care is over, that what you have is your own luggage, that what you own is nothing. And so the long walk begins, not all of us are lucky enough to take that long walk, some are not affected, and they live thier lives by what they see in front of them, long walkers are big thinkers, mostly to their own detriment. Dollar is in for a long walk, either she breaks it, or it breaks her, the latter can't really inflict anything other than regret, which is worse. The heaviest bag of all is that of regret, I'm scared Dollar doesn't relish the long walk, and ends up regretting it. Dollar, if/when you read this, hang in there baby sister, it's about to get so good.

I have 2 quotes of the day, I dedicate them to my baby sister Dollar:

Life is a strange journey from peculiar station to peculiar station - blessed are those who ride it with grace, and wit, and charm.

- Tom Robbins, Jitterbug Perfume

It has yet to be proven that intelligence has any survival value.

- Arthur C. Clarke