I should, perhaps. mention that the medical fraternity of north London has so far been unable to diagnose me with anything big and scary.

No diabetes (a relief), no anaemia (despite low haemoglobin levels), no leukaemia (always a long shot), no carbon monoxide poisoning (although I have Paul the Gas to thanks for that), no glaucoma (or so the optician told me), and no Aids (of course).

The abnormality proved not to be a surprise. Raised urates, better known as the cause of gout. But I've suspected this for some time - occasionally painfully. Now's not the time for that, though.

Yet despite the good doctors drawing a blank, I'm still getting headaches at work. Shouldn't be the glasses, because I've just got a new pair, and the opticians swear blind that it's the right prescription. And it doesn't feel right for eye strain anyway. It's more brainy. Dietary maybe. Or it could be sick building syndrome - the BBC's nothing if not renowned for its dodgy aircon. Or maybe posture, and ergonomics. Who can tell?

So it'll be back to the doctors in the new year. They haven't given me bad news yet, which is good. But I have a feeling we haven't hear the last of this.