I work in the best area of London when the summer sun begins to shine. In a celebratory mood, Soho is awash with Aperol Spritz as long lunches turn into long cocktails until long after the sun goes down. Thankfully I work in an industry populated by creative mischief-makers and my incredible job has allowed me the opportunity to court fun like 007 courts danger. So when a peculiar chest pain crept up on me this August, I was more concerned about the opening of the new Soho House, rather than my health. In fact, my heath was so far down my list of priorities and lost within my thoughts, I could barely see it; I imagine it looked a bit like this inside my head… ‘I wonder how much it would cost to build a vineyard in Puglia? Do you build vineyards or grow them? I’d love a puppy. How long does it take to grow the vines and is £2082 savings enough to buy them? My chest hurts, I’ll just Google ‘vineyards for sale’. There’s a Zara sale! I know nothing about vineyards so I should probably quash the dream of owning one. I want to launch a new short film festival. I’d just drink all the wine before I have the chance to sell it so a vineyard is a terrible idea. How about a bed and breakfast in Cornwall?’
As a healthy 30 year old (ok ok, 34 year old) I have garnered the nickname Leonie Lush for my crafty ability to find the fun in any occasion. ‘We just won a new client, let’s go for a DRINK! I LOVE Taylor Swift’s new song, let’s find somewhere to DANCE to it! It’s TUESDAY and I’ve got a voucher for PIZZA EXPRESS! It’s TUESDAY!’ Etc. So when that niggling chest pain kept interrupting my fun, I reluctantly decided to go to the doctors. But because I’m normally a picture of health (minus the hangovers and subsequent Domino’s Pizzas), I didn’t have a doctor, so I had to borrow my parents’. I popped on the train to Guildford and was greeted by my dad who was waiting with the anticipation of a Labrador whose owners had tied him to a lamppost and gone travelling round Europe. Dad wagged his (invisible) tail and we merrily drove to the doctor to get some antibiotics for my ‘chest infection.’ In the car he warned me that ‘Doctor Englesfield doesn’t like it when you tell him what’s wrong with you, you have to let him think he thought of it first.’
So with that in mind, I told the ‘know-it-all’ doctor that my chest hurt, a lot. At first it just hurt after the gym, then it hurt when I ran for a bus, then it hurt when I walked up the stairs, then it hurt when I walked, then it just hurt all.the.time. and it had been getting progressively worse over the past three weeks. The doc said it wasn’t a chest infection after all (fancy that!) He prescribed me some non steroidal anti-inflammatories for Costochondritis (which is inflammation of the cartilage between the ribs, possibly caused by a virus.) I happily picked up my prescription, and my dad drove me home where my mum had just popped a bottle of Prosecco in celebration of my return. Cheers!