As Facebook friends may have read, a couple of weeks ago I had a funny turn.

Out walking the dog I felt fuzzy headed, vision even more blurry than usual, unable to walk in a straight line, slurred speech. No drink taken. Transient ischaemic attack (ministroke) thought I as I was lumbering about. Or brain tumour, or cerebellar disease, or inner ear disease.

I sat down, minded by two kind passers by who said I was pale and unsteady. Susan walked the dog home, brought the car and off to hospital. I was in hospital a fair bit as a child for tonsils, nasal polyps (x 3), appendix, teeth and broken bones, so I dislike hospitals intensely. Not only that, people die in them. So the fact that I willingly went says something important.

A&E was quiet. I was tended with efficiency and good humour. I was given a mask and learnt that nobody knows how to stop them steaming up your specs. ECG normal, head CT normal, BP 135/75 – beat that, suckers, given the amount of salt and butter I consume.

High dose aspirin was administered, blood thinner and statins prescribed. Statins I don’t like. Doctors don’t always know the difference between good and bad cholesterol. and the evidence for the efficacy of statins is equivocal. Anyhoo, when I had them once before they didn’t agree with me so I stopped them PDQ.

There’s an MRI next week and they mentioned continuous ambulatory heart monitoring. But I feel as if I’ll be wasting their time. I’ve no idea what caused the symptoms, and they don’t fit into any recognised disease pattern.

You see, dear reader, we’re just machines, and machines have glitches. Sometimes we know what causes the glitch, sometimes we don’t. I’ve found that the cure for a computer glitch is usually to turn it off then on again; for a TV or washing machine glitch, a hard bash or three usually does the trick.

So on this well-established principle, my treatment for this funny turn (a recognised medical expression by the way) was: kill or cure. The very next day I took up running.

Back in the 1980s I was a regular runner – not particularly fast but I could go for ages. Often up at 5.30 am to run a few miles in north Nottingham to Bulwell and back from Sherwood (a suburb, not the forest). A friend and I often went for a few miles round Wollaton Park at lunchtime, showering afterwards in the Anatomy mortuary, much to the amusement of the staff if not the cadavers. I even ran three half marathons.

In the 1990s I was at it again at lunchtime in Dublin from St Stephen’s Green to Phoenix Park and back with a colleague (students were shocked to see that Professors had legs), and at home in Djouce woods in County Wicklow. I opened the car boot, in jumped Petra (a ridgeback/lab cross, a wonderful dog) and up to the woods. We had a great time on the tracks and pathways. The woods, opposite Powerscourt waterfall, were known as an IRA training ground, but we never saw or heard anything interesting. I was really quite fit and lean. Then life intervened and I became, let’s say, less lean. Weightlifting became my thing.

Now senza gym and provoked by a funny turn it’s back to running.

But gently—not because I might die, for I certainly shall, but because I wish to minimise pain. At the age of 70 next month, muscles are good but ligaments and tendons are much more brittle. It hurts when they tear or rupture.  Joint cartilages, too, need care.

Will I ever be back at the gym? When will it re-open? Will I at this age be allowed out of the house? Let me tell you, girls and boys, if the government says I’m not, I may well need to be visited in prison because doubtless some nosey parker reincarnation of an East German Stasi gobshite will report me for being a very naughty boy.

What if running provokes a catastrophic blowout? Well, that’ll be that. You’re welcome to the party after the funeral, if allowed. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, as my ole pal Fred Kneeshaw said.

But never mind. Her Majesty’s Government is in control. I have every confidence that they will act sensibly over gyms: reopen them now please. I have every confidence that they will raise money to pay for the largesse they’re doling out by making the super-rich pay more tax, by making multinationals like Amazon pay more tax, by stopping drug companies (they’re all evil) charging extortionately for things that are cheap to make, and by closing tax havens. Funds will cascade into government coffers. As I say, I have every confidence.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, every day in every way it gets easier and easier. And the dog is having a great time.