Waking up in intensive care is a strange sort of good news. You’re awake—which, given the alternatives, feels like a win. But then you open your eyes properly.

Curtains are everywhere. Not the soft, domestic kind that suggest privacy; these are functional, easy-clean barriers around little islands of crisis. Inside each one is a medical mission control: banks of machines, blinking lights, rolling numbers, and the rhythmic chirping of alarms. At the centre of each lies a person, hovering right on the edge of things.

It doesn’t take long to realise you’re one of them.

Taking stock

My first conscious act was a groggy, internal stocktake. There was a tube in my neck, and drains in my chest, and wires snaking toward every available limb. Then there was the quiet, unmistakable awareness of a catheter doing its business without once consulting me.

Movement wasn’t so much restricted as it was an improbable ambition. Getting out of bed wasn’t on the agenda; I was less a person and more a tethered satellite. Also, I couldn’t ignore the dressing on my chest—a reminder that something monumental had occurred, even if I was still piecing the details together.

Time as liquid

Trying to construct a timeline was a fool’s errand. I was, to put it mildly, off with the fairies.

Time didn’t move forward so much as it drifted. Days and nights blurred into a cycle governed by “The Routine”: observations, checks, and adjustments.

Oddly, the nights felt the most human. There were long, hushed conversations with whichever nurse had drawn the short straw—quiet chats in the half-light while the machines hummed a mechanical lullaby in the background.

Enter the lions

Then things took a surreal turn. I woke from a nap and found two stone lions at the foot of my bed.

They weren’t enormous, but they weren’t subtle, either. They didn’t do much; they just stood there. Solid. Watchful. Bedside sentinels. I made a quick executive decision not to mention them to the staff. There’s a fine line between “recovering patient” and “extended stay for psychiatric observation,” and I had no interest in crossing it. So, the lions stayed my secret companions.

They came and went. They paced the ward. At one point, the consultant arrived with his entourage—serious faces, important tones, heavy charts. I nodded along politely while, just behind them, my lions wandered about like bored security guards waiting for a shift to end.

A change of pace

After twenty-four hours (it could be longer, it’s all very hazy), the atmosphere shifted.
Before: “Take your time.” After: “Let’s get you out of here.”

I’m told there are “good clinical reasons” for this sudden urgency, but I couldn’t help noticing I had become a unit on a conveyor belt. It was time to move along. Fair enough.

Plastic, be gone

Shortly after, three nurses arrived. That alone felt significant. One nurse is a check-up; three is a “situation.”

“We’re going to remove the drainage tubes,” one said.

I imagined a delicate, calibrated extraction. “Fair enough,” I thought.

“We’ll just pull them out. It might be a bit uncomfortable,” he said, the standard medical code for ‘this is going to hurt.’

I briefly wondered if the other two nurses were there for moral support or to hold me down. I summoned my best brave face. “No problem.”

The first one came out. There is no elegant way to describe the sensation of something being reeled in from deep inside your chest cavity. All I could do was express relief that it was done.

“First one done,” he said brightly.

With all the pain, I’d forgotten—there were two.

The second drain didn’t share its partner’s enthusiasm for departure. There was a pull. Then resistance. Then a look shared between the nurses that suggested we had strayed quite some distance from the script.

A pause. A silent, professional decision made. Pull harder. Pull faster.

Out it came. I gasped—the kind of visceral sound that makes everything else in the world briefly irrelevant. Then came the reveal. The nurse triumphantly held up the tube, only to realise with horror and confusion, the end was missing.

Damage limitation

The atmosphere shifted again. Quiet apologies. A hurried exit. I had just transitioned from “recovering patient” to “incident report.”

Senior figures began to arrive. They didn’t come to fix it; they came to assess. One mentioned—perhaps a touch too casually—that during the pandemic, supply chains had forced them to source “alternative equipment.” You could see the mid-sentence realisation that this was perhaps not the most reassuring trivia to share with a man containing a stray piece of “alternative” plastic.

“Meetings will be had,” I was told. “Enquiries made.”

They didn’t want to be sued. I just wanted the plastic out of my chest.

Back to theatre

A doctor appeared with the air of a man dealing with an inconvenient interruption. He tried a bedside retrieval first—long scissors and a bit of exploratory optimism, which descended into what we Yorkshire people call “broddling about.”

It didn’t work.

“Back to theatre,” he sighed.

Before I could process the defeat of going backward, I was being wheeled away again. They put me to sleep, removed the offending plastic, stitched me back up, and returned me to the ICU to restart the business of recovering.

It was starting to feel like a game of all snakes and no ladders.

The exit

The pace accelerated again after that. With the tubes finally gone, standing became possible. Walking—if you were generous with the definition—followed shortly. The goal was clear: Out.

At some point, I put my Apple Watch back on. It was an attempt at normality that backfired immediately.

Buzz. Ding. “Atrial fibrillation detected.”

Then again. And again. I took it off. There are only so many times a piece of consumer electronics should be allowed to tell you your heart is freestyling. The doctors were calm; it’s common after surgery. It might settle, it might not. Potentially more pills, more procedures. Here we go again.

Eventually, it really was time to leave. In the exit lounge, waiting for my carrier bag of meds to arrive, I got chatting to another patient—a triple bypass. We compared notes in the way survivors do. I mentioned the lions.

He paused, then turned to his wife, looking triumphant. “See? I told you. I saw things.”

His version involved wheelie bins connected by incident tape. We agreed not to analyse that too deeply.

Home

The journey home was slow. Every bump in the road brought a wince of pain, but there was a quiet sense of relief underneath the soreness. Two weeks, from heart attack to discharge. And, all things considered, I’d take stone lions over wheelie bins any day.

This is Part 5 of my Cardiac Diary. In the next post, I’ll write about what happened when I got home and started my recovery and building a ‘new life’. Until next time…

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

There’s a moment when you reach behind your back—pulling off a sweater, fastening a bra, scratching an itch—and realise things are different now.

Everything seems a bit more laboured. A hint of stiffness where there used to be none.

That’s when it’s time for the back scratch test to make an appearance.

It’s quick, simple, and surprisingly revealing.

What this test measures

The back scratch test measures shoulder flexibility and mobility, particularly:

• Internal rotation (bottom arm)

• External rotation (top arm)

• Overall shoulder joint range of motion

• Imbalances in either shoulder

In simple terms: how well your shoulders allow your arms to move where they need to go.

It’s a combined movement. A bit of strength. Plenty of flexibility. And a whole heap of coordination between joints, muscles, and connective tissue.

Why it matters

Shoulder mobility tends to fade with age.

You don’t notice it in the gym. You notice it in daily life.

• Reaching for a seatbelt

• Putting on a coat

• Washing your back

• Getting something from a high shelf

Loss of shoulder flexibility is linked to:

• Reduced independence

• Higher injury risk

• Compensatory movements (which often lead to neck or back pain)

And importantly, it’s one of the earlier things to decline if you stop using it.

How to do the test

You just need a bit of space, wear loose clothing, and you’re all set.

1. Stand up straight

2. Reach one hand over your shoulder and down your back

3. Reach the other hand up the middle of your back from below

4. Try to touch or overlap your middle fingers

Make a note of how far you can, or can’t, overlap your hands

Remember to test both sides. Most people will have a “better” side.

Making sense of your score

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about context.

Can’t touch fingers - Needs work, time to get busy.

Just touching - Average. Good going but with a bit of effort you can improve.

Overlapping - Excellent. Give yourself a pat on the back—you can probably reach! 😆

Men tend to score lower than women on average. That’s normal.

What matters more is:

• Your change over time

• The difference between sides

• Whether it affects daily tasks

A large side-to-side imbalance is often more important than the absolute number.

How to ace your next test

The good news is you can reverse the trend and ‘future-proof’ your shoulders. You don’t need a complicated routine. Just a few minutes of consistency.

Try this towel stretch routine.

Grab a towel and make sure your top is loose and comfortable.

Stretch 1

1. Keep your right hand low and reach around as though you’re about to scratch your back, palm facing away from you.

2. Place the towel over your left shoulder and grab it with your left hand.

3. Slowly and gently pull the towel with your right hand until you feel a stretch in your left shoulder. It shouldn’t hurt.

4. Hold it for 10-15 seconds and repeat 3 times.

5. Now swap arms and repeat the process.

Stretch 2

1. Hold a towel above your head with your left hand.

2. Bring your right hand underneath and behind you and grab the towel with your palm facing away from you.

3. Slowly and gently pull the towel downwards with your right hand until you feel a stretch in your left shoulder. It shouldn’t hurt.

4. Hold it for 10-15 seconds and repeat 3 times.

5. Now swap arms and repeat the process.

Try it gain in a month to see if there’s any change.

A simple rule—If you can’t reach it, train it.

The takeaway

The back scratch test isn’t glamorous.

But it tells you something useful, quickly.

And like most good health checks, it gives you a choice:

Ignore it…

or do something small now, that makes life easier later.

Now, have a go and let me know how you get on in the comments. I’m off for a rematch with that woolly octopus…

Until next time. 👋

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

I’ve already promoted my ‘cooking numpty’ credentials in other posts. I lose the plot when presented with a long list of ingredients and endless steps in a recipe. I just don’t have it in me.

But…

I still want tasty scran at the drop of a hat. Too much to ask?

I’m on a bit of a mission to swap out some of my meat for the joys of beans and legumes, while still keeping my protein up. This one fits the bill.

I tend to make it with two tins of tuna, as I want to hit that 30g-per-meal target to feed my ageing muscles.

I’ll also confess to a bit of indulgence with my choice of tuna. I recommend tuna in olive oil rather than water.

The best part? There’s hardly anything to do. It’s barely a recipe, which suits me just fine. It fits my MVC philosophy—‘Minimum Viable Cheffing’—to a tee. Convenient enough to make me ditch my lunchtime sandwich default and opt for something altogether better.

Ingredients (2 portions)

• 1 x 400g tin of cannellini beans

• 2 x 110g tins of tuna in olive oil

• ½ a medium red onion, thinly sliced

• Dressing: 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil, juice of ½ a lemon, sea salt and black pepper

• Handful of flat leaf parsley, chopped

To serve

• Rocket leaves

• Optional, crusty bread

Method

1. Rinse and drain the beans.

2. Thinly slice the onion and leave it in a bowl with the lemon juice and a pinch of salt for 10 minutes. This takes the edge off the sharpness.

3. In a large bowl, gently mix the beans and tuna (include a little of the oil from the tin for extra flavour).

4. Add the onion and lemon mixture, the remaining olive oil, and the parsley.

5. Toss gently until everything is coated. Season to taste.

For best results, let the salad sit for at least 30 minutes so the ingredients can get to know each other. Serve at room temperature, not straight from the fridge.

Nutrition (per portion, without bread)

Calories: 512 kcal
Protein: 31.4 g
Carbohydrates: 16.8 g
Fat: 33.6 g (of which saturated: 4.8 g)
Fibre: 7.8g

To serve

Serve in a bowl on a bed of rocket, with crusty bread if you fancy it.

For extra colour and crunch, add chopped cucumber, tomatoes, or black olives.

Healthspan credentials are good too

• High Protein: With over 30g per serving, this supports muscle maintenance and helps keep you fuller for longer.

• Good Fats: While total fat is relatively high (33.6g), saturated fat is low (under 5g). Most of the fat comes from monounsaturated sources in olive oil, which are associated with better heart health.

• Slow-Release Carbs: The carbs come largely from beans, which have a low glycaemic index and provide a useful hit of fibre.

Let me know in the comments if you give it a try. I love it!

Until next time. 👋

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

The book in a nutshell

According to Clear, you don’t change your life in one dramatic moment. You move there gradually through what you do every day.

This book makes a simple argument: small habits, repeated often enough, compound into something significant. Not quickly. Not obviously. But inevitably.

If things aren’t working, it’s rarely a motivation problem. It’s a systems problem. And systems, unlike motivation, can be designed.

The big idea

Forget goals. Build systems.

Clear’s central line—one worth pinning somewhere visible—is this:

You do not rise to the level of your goals. You fall to the level of your systems.

Goals give direction. Systems create progress.

Most people focus on outcomes (lose weight, get fit, write a book). The shift is to focus on the process—the daily behaviours that make those outcomes inevitable.

And underneath that sits something deeper still: identity.

Not “I want to get fit” but “I’m the sort of person who exercises regularly.”

Key insights

1. Small changes compound—quietly, then suddenly
   Improving by 1% doesn’t feel like much. But over time it adds up. Clear uses the idea that tiny gains, repeated daily, can lead to dramatic results—like interest in a bank account, just slower to notice.

   Most people quit in what he calls the valley of disappointment—that awkward stretch where effort hasn’t yet translated into visible results.

2. Habits are the compound interest of behaviour
   Your outcomes are a lagging measure of your habits.

   • Your weight reflects your eating habits

   • Your fitness reflects your exercise habits

   • Your knowledge reflects your reading habits

   You don’t get what you want. You get what you repeat.

3. Systems beat goals (every time, long term)
   Goals create a short burst of effort. Systems create continuity.

   There are problems with goals:

   • Everyone has them (so they don’t differentiate success)

   • They create a “finish line” (and then people stop)

   • They delay satisfaction (“I’ll be happy when…”)

   Systems remove all of that. You just keep going.

4. Identity drives behaviour
   The most durable habits come from identity, not effort.

   • “I’m trying to stop smoking” is fragile

   • “I’m not a smoker” is stable

   Behaviour sticks when it aligns with who you believe you are.

5. Environment matters more than motivation
   You don’t rise to your intentions. You fall to your environment.

   Make good habits obvious and easy. Make bad ones invisible and inconvenient.

   Put the fruit on the counter and the biscuits to the back of the cupboard.

   People with strong habits aren’t more disciplined. They’ve simply designed better surroundings.

6. The Four Laws of Behaviour Change
   Clear structures habit formation into four practical rules:

   • Make it obvious (Cue)

   • Make it attractive (Craving)

   • Make it easy (Response)

   • Make it satisfying (Reward)

   Invert these to disrupt and break bad habits.

What to do with this information

Start smaller than you think is reasonable.

Not a new routine. Not a full reset. Just something you can’t fail to achieve.

• One press-up

• One downward dog

• One walk to the end of the road

Then ‘stack’ it with something you already do (making coffee, brushing teeth).

Focus on consistency, not intensity.

And quietly adjust your environment:

• Put the fruit where you’ll see it

• Leave your trainers out

• Remove friction from the behaviour you want

You’re not trying to change your life. You’re trying to cast votes for the type of person you want to become.

The one takeaway

Your future isn’t decided by “hero efforts.”

It’s decided by what you do every day—especially when it doesn’t feel like it’s working yet.

This book is for:

• People who’ve tried to change and keep slipping back

• People who rely on motivation (and find it unreliable)

• People who like practical frameworks over theory

• Anyone building something long-term—health, business, writing, anything that compounds over time

It’s particularly useful if you value long-term consistency over short-term ‘hacks’.

My rating

★★★★★

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

There’s an oft-used scene in war films. Fresh recruits heading for the front—boisterous, bantering, thrilled by the idea of it all. Adventure awaits. Stories to tell.

Then they pass the men coming the other way.

Uniforms torn. Faces hollow. Walking wounded. All of them changed by what they’ve just been through.

I had my own small version of that ‘fresh recruit’ moment walking into my new ward for the night.

It was around ten. The other patients were asleep, but not peacefully. Machines hummed and beeped. Breathing was laboured. The occasional groan cut through the quiet. These weren’t men back from battle—but they’d clearly been through the wringer.

And it was my turn tomorrow.

Rituals

Once I got settled in, I went to reception and asked if there was anything I needed to do.

There was.

I was handed a razor and told to shave my chest and both legs.

A nurse pointed me towards the shower and explained, as though it was obvious, that this would make it easier to “find and harvest the veins.”

I tried to imagine the scars. Ugh.

Once I was done, with my post-holiday tan and hairless body, I felt less like a cardiac patient and more like a Love Island: NHS contestant.

Sleep that night was fitful. Breakfast the next day, a token effort. Then came the first meeting with my surgeon.

He was calm. Friendly. Reassuring in the way someone can be when they’ve done something wildly complicated many, many times.

“It’s a serious operation,” he said. A pause. “But relatively routine for us. Just plumbing, really.”

I nodded, as if this was entirely reasonable. Inside, less so. This felt less like fixing a leaky tap and more like putting back together an adult-sized Humpty Dumpty.

Start, stop

A couple of hours later, a porter arrived. I was plonked into a wheelchair and off we went to theatre.

We moved through a maze of corridors and eventually arrived in a cavernous basement with factory-like rows of operating theatres, each quietly getting on with the business of changing someone’s life.

I was deposited in the holding area and asked to lie down on my allotted theatre trolley. Gown present; dignity elsewhere.

I felt an acute kind of helpless. You’re not in control of anything. Not your body, not the timeline, not even your thoughts, which tend to wander into unpleasant places.

People came and went. Names were called. Curtains moved. Eventually, my surgeon reappeared.

And he had The Face.

The same one I’d seen when I was first told I needed a bypass.

“We have a small problem,” he said.

Of course we do.

“Your anaesthetist tested positive for Covid.”

A pause.

“We need to find another one.”

I can’t claim to be an expert in hospital logistics, but even I could guess anaesthetists aren’t sitting around like subs on a pitch-side bench.

There were apologies. Then some more. Then back in the wheelchair. Returned to the ward. Deflated.

Game on

More waiting.

Then, mid-afternoon, the surgeon reappeared. Different energy this time. Lighter. They’d found a replacement. The wheels were back on.

Another call for a porter. None to be found. A brief pause.

“I’ll take you down myself.”

The man who was about to spend the next six hours with his hands inside my chest was pushing my wheelchair through the corridors himself. Multi-tasking indeed.

The second arrival felt different. More purposeful. Introductions came thick and fast. Faces, names, roles—most of which I immediately forgot in a blur of blue scrubs. A well-rehearsed choreography unfolding around me.

I was moved into a small anteroom just outside the theatre. I lifted my head and looked in. Machines. Lights. People moving with purpose. Hard not to feel the weight of it.

All of this—for me.

The final moments were simple, almost banal. A mask. A few words. A voice telling me to count backwards from ten.

Ten… nine… eight…

And then, out.

While you were sleeping

What happened next I only know because I later watched an NHS explainer video—mostly from behind the sofa. Let’s just say it was… graphic.

My operation was ‘on-pump’. In simple terms, my circulation and breathing was diverted to a heart–lung machine. Then, my heart was stopped. Yes—actually stopped.

The surgeons got to work. Bypass times four.

Sections of vein were ‘harvested’ from my left leg and grafted onto the heart. Each one creating a new route for blood to flow. A life-saving detour.

Once all four were in place, my heart was restarted. The machine stepped back. Normal circulation resumed.

Six hours later, the job was done.

The worst part, surely, was behind me.

Or so I thought.

This is Part 4 of my Cardiac Diary. In the next post, I’ll write about my time in the Intensive Care Unit up to being discharged. Let’s just say it was eventful. Until next time…

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

The book in a nutshell

Geoff Whittington was 60 years of age and living with type 2 diabetes. His decline wasn’t dramatic, just a little worse each year… until one day Doctor’s started to talk of amputation.

That’s where this book starts.

Fixing Dad follows a family who decide that “managing” decline isn’t good enough. Faced with a bleak future—worsening diabetes, medication piling up, mobility slipping—they step in and take control.

What unfolds is a stroppy, messy, and ultimately successful attempt to reverse type 2 diabetes through changes in food, movement and mindset.

The big idea

Type 2 diabetes is often treated as a life sentence.

This book challenges that.

In many cases, it’s not just manageable—it’s potentially reversible. But only if you move beyond the standard path of medication and start addressing the root causes.

The uncomfortable truth running through the book is this:

The ‘system’ can manage the disease. It’s up to Individuals to fix it.

Key insights

1. Lifestyle drives the problem—but habits keep it alive. Years of routine—fast food, inactivity, convenience—don’t just affect the body, they hardwire behaviour.

2. Change happens in small steps, not giant leaps. No single intervention did the job. Progress came from stacking small, consistent changes across nutrition, fitness and mindset.

3. Working together, a family can change everything. Left alone, Geoff was stuck. With support—and pressure—from his family, he started to move the dial. Accountability matters.

4. Focus on three pillars: Nutrition, fitness and mindset. Get the balance wrong, and the others unravel.

5. Belief is the real bottleneck. Geoff didn’t change because he lacked information. He changed when he realised decline wasn’t inevitable.

6. “Moderation” is often the problem. What people call moderation is usually just a slightly reduced version of the same behaviour.

Real change requires clear lines and specific action.

What to do with this information

Question the default path. Don’t assume your condition—or someone else’s—is fixed.

Start with the basics:

• Improve food quality

• Increase daily movement

• Address mindset and habits

Simple, not easy.

Make it shared. Progress is easier with support—family, friends, or a structured plan.

Use practical tools, not just motivation. One of the strengths of this book is that it doesn’t stop at the story. It includes recipes, meal plans and practical guidance throughout.

Build progress, not perfection. One better meal. One walk. One good decision. Repeat daily.

Create urgency. Change usually follows a wake-up call. If one hasn’t arrived yet, don’t wait for it.

The one takeaway

It reinforced how difficult it is to change health behaviours in isolation. The book makes a strong case that environment—especially family—is often the deciding factor. Being accountable can make a world of difference.

Who this is for

This book is for:

• Anyone trying to help a parent or partner improve their health

• People dealing with type 2 diabetes or other, lifestyle-related illness

• Those who feel stuck and need proof that change is possible

• Those who are looking beyond inspiration and want practical examples of exercise and eating plans

This book is not for:

• People looking for a purely scientific or clinical explanation

• Those unwilling to change habits or environment

My rating

★★★★☆

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

A strong grip can do more than get you into the pickle jar. It’s what researchers call a biomarker of ageing.

In plain English: it gives a snapshot of how well your body is holding up, particularly in relation to a decline in muscle mass and strength—a process known as Sarcopenia.

The problem is, it happens quietly. You don’t notice it day to day.

Until one day:

• Opening jars becomes a struggle

• Carrying shopping feels harder

• Picking up that holiday suitcase takes more effort than before

Grip strength provides a useful metric—so useful that low grip strength is one of the criteria used to diagnose Frailty Syndrome.

Which is why this test matters.

It’s not about your handshake.

It’s about your future independence.

How to do the test

To do this test you’ll need a contraption called a Grip Strength Dynamometer. I bought mine with my own money (no freebies or sponsorships) on Amazon.

I chose the CAMRY Digital Grip Dynamometer. Cheaper ones are available but I particularly like the digital readout and instant results feedback.

The test:

1. Sit on a chair with no arms, upright and your back supported, feet flat on the floor.

2. Hold the dynamometer in one hand with your arm at the side and elbow bent at 90°

3. Squeeze as hard as you possibly can for 3-5 seconds and record the score in kg. Do this twice more for the same side and keep the highest score.

4. Repeat on the other side and use the highest score from both.

Now check the scores against your age and sex standards to find out how you compare.

For example, my best score as a 65 year-old was 47kg. This places me above average for my age and sex and gives me the average grip strength of a 40-44 year-old. I’ll take that!

Making sense of your score

Think in three zones:

1. Above Average

You’re in a strong position.

This usually reflects:

• Good muscle mass

• Better metabolic health

• Lower risk of frailty

Keep doing what you’re doing.

2. Average

You’re where most people are.

Which sounds fine — until you remember:

Who wants to be average?

It’s good to have a higher score to improve your ‘functional reserve’, leaving you with enough capacity for those unexpected events that always come along when you least expect them.

3. Below threshold (frailty risk)

Widely used cut-offs:

• Men: below 27 kg

• Women: below 16 kg

Below this level, risk increases for:

• Falls

• Loss of independence

• Early mortality

This is where action matters most.

How to improve your score

The good news: grip strength responds well to training.

1. Lift heavy things, properly

Nothing fancy required, focus on:

• Deadlifts

• Rows

• Suitcase carries

These train grip and the rest of your body.

2. Hang around

Hanging from a pullup bar (aka The Dead Hang), is powerful exercise for the whole body, but in particular for building up grip strength. The longer you can hang, the better your grip.

3. Train your whole body

Grip strength reflects total body strength.

Prioritise:

• Resistance training 2–3× per week

• Adequate protein intake

• Recovery (sleep matters more than you think)

4. Retest regularly

Every 3-4 months is a useful interval to give enough time for you to work on maintaining and improving your score.

You’re looking for small, steady improvements. Remember: progress not perfection

Work consistently, keep a beady eye on your scores, and that pickle jar won’t stand a chance for years to come.

If you try the test, and you’re in a sharing mood, post your score in the comments.

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

As a new, albeit reluctant, member of what I came to think of as “Club Cardiac,” my journey began to take a well-worn path for this sort of thing.

I would remain a guest of the hospital for the time being, undergoing a steady procession of tests and preparations before being transferred to a specialist cardiac unit in London for the operation. At this point, everything becomes both highly organised and strangely opaque.

Things are happening; you’re just not entirely sure what or when, or why.

The echo

Not long after the angiogram and its accompanying bombshell, a technician arrived pushing a trolley loaded with yet more high-tech kit. It was time for an echocardiogram—or “echo” if you’re in the know.

The process itself was straightforward: a blob of cold gel, an ultrasound probe to the chest, and a screen showing a grainy, flickering image of something that, I was assured, was my heart. I could see it pumping away, which felt reassuring.

Apparently, if you know what you’re looking at, these images can reveal quite a lot. The main focus was something called the ejection fraction—the percentage of blood the heart pushes out with each beat. If part of the heart muscle has been damaged—say, by a heart attack—it can reduce that number. And that, I gathered, is not what you want.

Before I had time to fully process the implications, the technician announced that mine was “fine.” She made a note, wiped away the gel, and wheeled her magic machine off to the next unsuspecting patient. I took that as a win. Although, in my relieved state, I forgot to ask what the number actually was.

New digs

Behind the scenes, the NHS machine was quietly doing its thing. At some point, a bed became available on a male cardiac ward. I gathered up my belongings and my ever-present ECG monitor and was wheeled through a maze of corridors and lifts to a destination that looked almost identical to the last one. Hospital design does not encourage a strong sense of place.

The new ward had six beds. I managed to secure the one closest to the toilet and the exit, though at the expense of any proximity to a window—a trade-off I was willing to make. Once settled, my transition into a full-time patient began.

I was issued with a set of pyjamas that could only make fashion sense inside a hospital. More electrodes were attached, this time connected to a monitor with a convenient clip system so I could unplug myself when necessary, like a modern kitchen appliance.

And that was that. I was in.

A whole week of hurry up and wait

I didn’t know how long I would be there. Days have a way of blurring in a hospital, structured around a series of predictable events:

• Meals

• Doctor rounds

• Medication

• Waiting

• Repeat

Time passes, but not in the usual way. The only real breaks in the rhythm were visits from family, the occasional conversation with a fellow patient, or the arrival of someone with a new piece of equipment and another test to run. I was X-rayed, injected, and asked to blow into various tubes.

The end result of all this activity was the slightly ironic conclusion that I was fit and healthy enough to undergo major heart surgery.

The negotiation

If there are stages to processing something like this, I suspect this was the negotiation phase. I started to wonder if there might be a way out. Could I just… not have the operation?

What if I discharged myself, went home, and carried on as if none of this had happened? Were there alternatives that didn’t involve opening my chest for several hours and then putting it back together again? These seemed, at the time, like reasonable questions.

Later that day, one of the doctors did me a favour. During the ward round, I asked him what would happen if I chose not to go ahead with the operation. He looked at me for a moment. Then, in a strong South African accent, said:

“Mr. Dyson… you wull daaaa.”

That cleared things up. Operation it was then.

Out of my hands

After a monotonous week, things began to move. There was a brief period of uncertainty followed by the unmistakable signs of imminent departure. I was told to pack my things; an ambulance had been arranged.

Destination: Hammersmith Hospital. At some point during the journey, they even put the blue lights on—a nice touch.

By the time I arrived, the shape of things was clear. Tomorrow, my life was going to change. How much it would change—and how well things would go—was now entirely in the hands of the surgical team.

For the first time since this all began, I was properly out of my own hands.

There was nothing more for me to do.

This is Part3 of my Cardiac Diary. In the next post, I’ll write about the ups and downs of the day of the operation. Mainly the downs if I’m honest. Until next time…

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

If you’re of a certain age, you probably remember the uproar in 1990 over the decision by Mars to discontinue the much-loved Marathon bar and rename it ‘Snickers’.

The reported reason was the need for a ‘unified brand worldwide’, since ‘Snickers’ offered stronger ‘global recognition’ and lower packaging and advertising costs. Great for Mars, but not for those of us who cherished our school-time snack memories.

Well, thanks to Joe Wicks, the perpetually peppy fitness guru, I got to revisit my youthful Marathon bar habit—albeit in liquid form.

Mrs D bought one of his books—not, she assured me, for his good looks and fine head of hair, but for the recipes, silly. I’ll have to take her word for it.

Shortly after, I heard her rummaging around in the kitchen, then our long-disused blender fired up like some demented outboard motor. A few minutes later, she presented me with a small glass of brown goo to sample. It was my first Wicks-approved ‘Chunky Monkey’ protein shake.

I wasn’t overly impressed with the taste, but I saw some potential, so I got to work and made a few small ‘improvements’.

I used skimmed milk and frozen banana to create a creamier texture than the original, but it still brings back those peanut-and-chocolate Marathon memories quite well.

This is my version. Mr Wicks, thanks for the inspiration. I salute you.

Ingredients

• 6-8 frozen banana slices (slice and freeze your own to reduce waste)

• 250ml skimmed milk (use semi-skimmed as an occasional treat)

• 1 tbsp peanut butter (palm oil-free is best)

• 1 tsp cocoa powder

• 25g chocolate protein powder

Method

There isn’t much method, really. Just chuck everything in the blender, give it a wazz and pour into a tall glass. Serves one.

Lower calories → reduce the peanut butter
Higher protein → increase protein powder to 30 g
Higher calories → change to semi-skimmed milk for a creamier taste

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 285 kcal
Protein: 30.5 g
Carbohydrates: 28 g
Fat: 6.5 g (saturated: 1.6 g)

Protein is a key ingredient for healthy ageing, I aim for 30g per meal and around 90g per day. This protein-rich drink is a quick and easy way to increase your daily intake.

I was convinced I’d perfected the recipe, but ‘drink 2.0’ still lacked a name.

While I poured my new gold standard (at least in my eyes), my son wandered into the kitchen. I offered him a glass and explained it was my version of Chunky Monkey.

He shot me a withering glance and said, “Chunky Monkey? It looks more like monkey poo!” Not quite a branding masterstroke, but the name stuck. Monkey Poo it became.

Our protein shake stand-off continues to this day: Mrs D has hers, I have mine.

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

The book in a nutshell

Lieberman’s central idea is that the human body evolved for a very different world than the one we now live in.

For millions of years, we adapted to environments that involved constant movement, scarce food, and physical effort. Then, in a relatively tiny space of time—with agriculture, then industrialisation—we changed the rules completely.

Our bodies haven’t caught up.

The big idea

Your body is adapted for one environment, but you’re living in another.

That gap is where most modern health problems come from.

• We evolved to move all day, now we sit

• We evolved to work for food, now have constant access

• We evolved to store scarce energy, now we have too much and over-store it

• We evolved for scarcity, now we live in abundance

The result: obesity, type 2 diabetes, heart disease, back pain, and more.

None of these were common before farming and industrialisation.

We solved old problems and created new ones.

Lieberman doesn’t argue we should “go back” to caveman life.

He maintains modern life is objectively better in many ways:

• Longer lifespan

• Lower infant mortality

• Better medical care

But…

We’ve engineered comfort and convenience so well that we’ve removed the very stresses our bodies need to stay healthy.

Key insights

1. Exercise isn’t optional

Your body expects movement as a baseline, not a bonus.

You don’t “get” health with exercise, you maintain it.

2. Comfort is the problem

We’ve designed effort out of life.

• Lifts instead of stairs

• Cars instead of walking

• Chairs instead of squatting

Convenience feels good at the time, but your body pays for it later.

3. More isn’t always better

Agriculture and industry gave us more food—but not always better food.

Calories went up. Nutrient quality didn’t always follow.

4. Prevention beats treatment

Modern medicine is brilliant at fixing things once they go wrong.

It’s much less effective at stopping them going wrong in the first place.

5. Culture is outrunning biology

Biological evolution is slow.

Cultural evolution—how we live, eat, and move—is fast.

Right now, culture is racing ahead.

What to do with this information

You don’t need to live like a hunter-gatherer.

But you probably need to borrow a few of their habits.

• Move more throughout the day

• Don’t default to comfort

• Build strength and resilience

• Eat like food isn’t always guaranteed

• Set up your environment so the healthy choice is the easy one

The one takeaway

We often think of “diseases of ageing” as inevitable.

But it’s what happens when a body built for one world is dropped into another.

Creating a better match between our ancient bodies and our modern environment pays off.

Who this is for

If you like understanding the why behind health, this is a strong read.

If you want a step-by-step plan, it isn’t.

But once you see the mismatch between how we live and how we evolved, a lot of modern health advice suddenly makes more sense.

My rating

★★★★☆

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

After arriving just before midnight in part one, it was now the early hours of the morning, and I was being shunted from one holding cubicle to another because, apparently, there wasn’t a bed available in a ward.

I had settled on the notion that I was in for a short stay — a bit of “observation”, a few checks, then home. Nobody had actually told me anything, so that’s how I chose to fill in the blanks.

As sunrise neared and shifts changed, someone finally told me a patient had been discharged, and that I now had a bed.

Good news.

Except that it was on a women’s ward.

Slightly less good news.

“It’s only temporary,” they reassured me.

The gears of the system started to move. I was given my first official patient transport experience: a wheelchair ride pushed by an orderly, with my belongings stacked in my lap and my heart monitor tagging along like a faithful pet.

I was wheeled into a curtained-off bed space and left to practice waiting again.

Let’s play cardiac bingo

After a short while, a doctor appeared and explained that I would be having a ‘series of tests’. So far, so mysterious.

Apparently, having already had a heart attack moves you into what might politely be called the ‘fast lane’.

My first item on the cardiac bingo card was a coronary angiogram.

I was wheeled into a room that looked like a cross between an operating theatre and a television control room.

Everyone was already there in scrubs, waiting for me.

I was ushered onto a narrow table beneath a large X-ray machine that hovered above like something from a science-fiction film.

To my left was a bank of monitors — screens full of images that clearly meant a lot to the professionals but very little to me.

This was to be my first ‘proper’ medical procedure related to my heart attack.

Like a metal worm

They made a small incision in my right wrist and inserted a thin wire into the artery.

I started to feel something — like a metal worm — making its way up the inside of my arm and into my chest.

It wasn’t painful. Just deeply odd.

Next, they injected a contrast dye.

Instantly, on the monitors beside me, my coronary arteries appeared in black, branching across the screen like the roots of a tree.

The idea, as I understood it, was straightforward enough.

If they found a small blockage, they could fix it there and then by inserting a stent — a tiny metal scaffold that props open the artery and lets blood flow properly again.

I was already mentally preparing for the conversation I’d have later at home.

“Yes, they put a stent in. Tiny thing, really. Very clever.”

Suddenly, the room went quiet.

The kind of quiet that shouldn’t be there.

Followed by some low muttering between a knot of people standing off to one side.

The general atmosphere shifted. It felt like the office party had ended early, and everyone was quietly stacking chairs.

For the first time since the whole process began, I stopped being an interested participant and became a concerned subject. For concerned, read worried.

One sentence changed everything

The consultant walked around to where I could see her.

She had the sort of face doctors wear when they’re about to say something disagreeable.

“Unfortunately, there are too many blockages,” she said.

“They’re too difficult to reach for stents.”

A small pause.

“You’re going to need a heart bypass. Probably a quadruple.”

And that was that.

No dramatic music. No slow fade.

Just a life-changing sentence.

And on that bombshell…

I was handed a printout of my results and wheeled back to my curtained bed space on the women’s ward.

And there I sat.

Stunned.

My head filled with a thousand thoughts.

To me, a heart bypass sat somewhere in the same category as heart transplants — serious, almost mythical procedures performed on other people.

Not people who had been playing tennis in the sunshine two weeks earlier.

Eventually, I pulled myself together and called Mrs D.

It was the first time I’d said the words out loud in relation to myself.

“I’m going to need a heart bypass.”

I had a small wobble on the phone.

And just like that.

My new life had started.

A second opinion from Dr Google

After the call, and pulling myself together, I did what everyone does nowadays when confronted with terrifying medical news.

I opened my phone and started searching Google.

Heart bypass survival rates.
Recovery times.
Life after bypass surgery.

To my surprise, the internet was full of people who had gone on to live very normal lives afterwards. Some were even running marathons.

That helped a bit.

I looked down at the small dressing on my wrist where they’d inserted the catheter.

Two hours earlier, that had been the main event.

Now it felt like a minor footnote.

Then it dawned on me.

This detour wasn’t a detour anymore.

I wasn’t a visitor to cardiac world.

I‘d now officially taken up residence.

And somewhere in my near future, a surgical team was planning to stop my heart, open my chest, and build me some new plumbing.

This is Part 2 of my Cardiac Diary. In the next post, I’ll dive into the reality of life on a cardiac ward, preparing for the biggest operation of my life.

Full disclosure: I’m not a stellar cook.

When I see people rustling up a culinary masterpiece from the scrag ends of the fridge, I feel a pang of envy. I do cook, but I tend to stick to a small cast of reliable old favourites.

For me, food needs to be deliciously healthy and require minimal faff. Fancy techniques, obscure ingredients, and gazillions of pans are a turn-off.

Less cheffing, s’il vous plaît.

One of my favourite low-effort options for breakfast or a lazy brunch is shakshuka.

It’s a classic dish from North Africa and the Middle East. The word loosely means “mixture,” which is about right for my level of culinary ambition.

My version revolves around a batch-cooked base sauce. I make a large batch, freeze it into single portions, then cook the final dish in individual ramekins.

Here’s the version that lives permanently in my freezer.

Ingredients (4 portions)

• 1 tbsp olive oil

• 115 g (1 cup) frozen chopped onions

• 1 tsp frozen chopped garlic

• 1 tsp smoked paprika

• 1 tsp ground cumin

• 1 tsp ground pepper

• 1 tsp salt

• ½ tsp chilli flakes (or to taste)

• 1 tbsp tomato purée

• 2 × 400 g tins chopped tomatoes

• 1 tsp runny honey

To serve

• 4–6 eggs

• Fresh coriander, chopped

Cooking the base sauce

1. Add olive oil to a casserole dish over medium heat.

2. Add the onions and garlic and cook until soft.

3. Stir in paprika, cumin, tomato purée, chilli flakes, and tomatoes.

4. Bring to the boil, season, then reduce to a simmer.

5. Cook until the sauce reaches a thickness you like.

6. Allow to cool and freeze in single portions.

Cooking from frozen

1. Transfer the defrosted sauce to an individual ovenproof ramekin and microwave for 1 minute.

2. Make a small depression in the centre and crack in an egg.

3. Bake at 180°C / 350°F / Gas Mark 4 for 8–10 minutes, or until the white is set, but the yolk is runny.

4. Finish with chopped coriander and serve with crusty bread or warm pitta.

Nutrition (per portion, without bread)

Calories: 164 kcal
Protein: 8.6 g
Carbohydrates: 14.1 g
Fat: 9.1 g (saturated: 1.9 g)

Make it yours

Greek yoghurt: A spoonful adds extra protein and softens the chilli heat.

Extra vegetables: Peppers and mushrooms work well. I usually leave them out, but they’re perfectly respectable additions.

Feta cheese: Sprinkle over before baking. Delicious, though it will push the fat content up a little.

Egg whites: Liquid egg whites are a simple way to increase protein without adding more yolks.

The nuclear option: Remove the skins from sausages, roll the meat into small balls, fry them first, and add them to the sauce.

The thermonuclear option: Very occasionally, I fry some black pudding until it forms a savoury “soil” that gets sprinkled on top. Special occasions only!

A spicy healthspan hero

A bowl of shakshuka quietly ticks several healthspan boxes.

Eggs support muscle maintenance. Tomatoes provide lycopene for cardiovascular health. Olive oil contributes heart-healthy fats. And the chilli gives a small metabolism kick.

All in one pan.

Not bad for something whose name literally means a bit of a mixture.

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

The book in a nutshell

This Book Could Save Your Life by New Scientist staff writer, Graham Lawton is an evidence-based manual designed to cut through the sensationalist headlines and “unscientific mumbo jumbo” that dominate the wellness industry.

Lawton, a science journalist with a background in biochemistry, evaluates the “totality of the evidence” to provide actionable advice on nutrition, exercise, sleep, and ageing.

It’s a book for those who want to base their health choices on published research rather than fad diets or quick fixes from “influencers” or celebrities. Amen to that.

The big idea

Lawton claims that while biomedical science is complex and often contradictory, a healthy lifestyle isn’t a mystery—it’s a matter of following established scientific principles to slow down the ageing process and extend “healthspan” (the number of years we live in good health).

Lawton argues that our modern “obesogenic” environment is at odds with our evolved physiology, but by using science to understand willpower and habit formation, we can reclaim our health and live better for longer.

Key insights

1. Nutrition: Much of what we thought we knew about food is being re-evaluated.

   While saturated fat is no longer the sole “villain,” replacing it with refined carbohydrates and sugar was probably a mistake. The healthiest diet remains Mediterranean-style: high in fibre, fruits, vegetables, and unsaturated fats from oily fish and nuts.

2. Exercise: Exercise has the potential to prevent more premature deaths than any other medical intervention. In fact if it were a drug, it would classed as a ‘miracle pill.’

3. Sleep: Sleep is not just a period of rest; it’s a vital biological “waste disposal” process, removing proteins linked to Alzheimer’s.

4. Supplements: For most well-nourished people, multivitamins and antioxidant pills are “money down the drain” and can even be harmful. Whole foods are always the superior source of nutrients, according to Lawson.

5. Biological vs. Chronological Age: Your biological age reflects the actual decline of your cellular repair mechanisms. This can be influenced by lifestyle choices—unlike chronological age, biological age can go down as well as up.

What to do with this information

• Get Moving (Now): Any amount of exercise is better than none.

  If you have a desk job, stand up and move for at least one minute every 30 minutes to break up sedentary periods.

• Prioritise Sleep Hygiene: Aim for at least seven hours of sleep.

  Keep your bedroom cool (around 18.5°C) and dim the lights an hour before bed to support melatonin production.

• Audit Your “Meds” and Supplements: Stop taking routine supplements unless you have a diagnosed deficiency. Consult your doctor before self-medicating with aspirin or other daily drugs.

• Expose Yourself to Daylight: Spend at least 20 minutes outside every morning

  This resets your master circadian clock, boosting daytime alertness and night time sleep quality.

• Nurture Social Ties: Loneliness has a health impact as detrimental as smoking or obesity. Focus on the quality of your relationships; dedicating time to an “inner circle” of five close people is key.

The one takeaway

On this, Lawton is clear “Get Moving”.

While diet and sleep are foundational, physical activity is the most potent, accessible, and scientifically validated tool for preventing chronic disease and extending a high-quality life.

This book is for:

• The “overwhelmed” consumer who’s tired of conflicting and contradictory health advice.

• Those who want a “manual for a healthy lifestyle” that’s rooted in rigorous scientific journals rather than wellness blogs or celebrity plans.

• The person who values “the totality of the evidence” over the latest social media trend.

• Those who prefer an occasional book to ‘dip-in’ to, rather than a long continuous read.

My rating

★★★☆☆

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

You’re likely debating whether to try this or keep scrolling. That hesitation is where most plans quietly fade. If you’ve ever felt stuck at the starting line, you’re not alone. Taking that first step is always the hardest part. In fact, If you’re sitting in a chair right now, you’re already halfway there.

A smart investment in your future self

This challenge takes just 30 seconds and focuses on one of the most critical pillars of healthspan: muscle.

The 30-second sit-to-stand test. It’s one of the most revealing ways to see how your body is holding up over time. What looks like an everyday movement hides a vital metric: lower-body strength.

Why this test matters

As we age, a quiet downgrade happens in the background.

After the age of 60, adults can lose around 1–2% of muscle mass per year, and strength may decline two to three times faster than that.

Doctors call it sarcopenia — the gradual loss of muscle mass and function. Left unchecked, this can often lead to early disability and loss of independence.

Leg strength underpins almost everything in daily life.

Getting out of a chair.
Climbing stairs.
Carrying the shopping.
Avoiding an undignified encounter with the pavement.

For such a simple test, researchers like the fact that it can provide useful information about:

• Lower-body strength

• Power

• Balance

• Functional independence

Researchers have also found that the sit-to-stand test is a surprisingly good indicator of:

• Walking speed

• Fall risk

• Frailty

• Ability to perform daily activities

In short, those 30 seconds tell you exactly how well your body is coping with the passage of time—and what your future might look like if the trend continues.

If you’d like more simple ways to test and improve your healthspan, subscribe to Olderland. Each week, I share practical steps that take only a few minutes but can pay dividends for years.

Ready to find out where you stand?

Before reading further, decide where you’re going to do this.

A kitchen chair with no arms will do nicely.

Stand up, grab your phone for the timer, and come back when you’re ready—no Lycra required.

Note: Please skip this test if you have knee pain or mobility issues. This one isn’t for you.

How to do the test

Setup:

1. Position the chair with its back against a wall so it can’t move. If you feel unsteady, place a second chair next to you for support.

2. Sit on the chair with your back straight and your feet flat on the floor.

3. Cross your arms over your chest and keep them there. Don’t use your hands or push off with your arms or knees when standing up.

The test:

When ready, start the timer.

Stand up completely from the chair, keeping your arms crossed.

• Sit back down fully on the chair.

• Continue standing up and sitting down as many times as possible within 30 seconds.

• Count each complete down-and-up repetition.

If you’re in the process of standing when 30 seconds ends, count that final repetition.

Make a note of the total number of full repetitions.

Making sense of your score

Researchers measured thousands of people to establish typical scores by age and sex.

So what counts as “good” for your age? Compare your score with the chart below.

A median ‘average’ (50th percentile) score would be typical for your age group. The higher your percentile, the better your legs are performing.

Younger legs in an instant

You may even discover you have ‘younger’ legs than your actual age - here’s how.

Take your score and find the closest to the average for a particular age band. For example, a 70-year-old man completing 17 repetitions would sit around the 75th percentile for his age — but roughly match the average performance of a 60–64-year-old.

Not bad going.

A higher score means you have a larger functional reserve — a bit more strength “in the bank”. In practical terms, that means greater capacity to handle the demands of daily life and the occasional emergency.

Those in the lower percentiles tend to have reduced capability and a less robust physical future.

Someone in the 90th percentile would be exceptional for their age group.

Whatever your score, this is your starting point for improvement.

The message is straightforward:

Use it or lose it.

These aren’t “pass or fail” marks. Think of this as a quarterly status update.

What’s more important is how your score changes over time.

Your Olderland Weekly Challenge

The beauty of this test is its convenience and practicality.

This isn’t “gym strength”; it’s real-life strength.

The ability to get out of a chair is the gateway to independence.

Don’t overthink it: Most people reading this could do the test in the next two minutes..

No heroics required. Just 30 seconds of feedback from your legs.

No matter the result, you’ll know exactly where you stand—pun intended.

In future posts, I’ll show you how I work on this pillar of healthspan, and how you can too, without needing to become a super-athlete.

In the meantime, for the next 7 days.

Every time you sit down, stand back up and sit down again — do a double sit.

If the research is right, we perform around 50 sit–to–stands in a typical day, plenty of opportunities to get your pins pumping!

Your future legs will thank you.

If you try the test, and you’re in a sharing mood, post your score in the comments. I’ll start the ball rolling. (65-year-old male - 20 repetitions)

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

According to the British Heart Foundation, almost 460 people in the UK will lose their lives every day to heart attack, stroke, heart failure or other cardiovascular diseases - that’s one death every three minutes. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think for a single second that I’d be auditioning for a leading part in that story. As far as I was concerned, Thursday the 6th October 2022 was going to be a typical day like any other - but fate had other ideas.

Less than two weeks before, I was living the dream on our annual sunshine holiday in Rhodes. My daily routine was a regular rotation of tennis and gym sessions, followed by a well-earned snooze on the sun lounger - bliss. My wife, meanwhile, was busy doing her ‘WOD’ and disappearing for long bike rides around the island. We were the picture of middle-aged health — or so I thought.

Hello, annus horribilis

Let’s be clear: 2022 had already been my Annus Horribilis for health. It kicked off with a double hernia operation in March, followed in July by an unexpected four-day stint in hospital for diverticulitis. Never heard of it? Neither had I.

I spent most of the year either ill or “recuperating” (which is code for eating a little too much and exercising too little). By the time Rhodes rolled around in September, I was overweight, out of shape, and desperate for a reset.

Time to hit the comeback trail.

Except… the trail was feeling remarkably steep.

When the gym stops liking you back

With regard to exercise, I’m fairly clued up when it comes to my heart rate, speeds, and inclines — I know what usually works for me. But in that Greek gym, the treadmill and I weren’t getting along at all. Instead of running, I was walking. Instead of inclines, I was sticking to the flats.

I wasn’t in pain; I just felt like I was running on empty.

I put it down to more than 12 months of enforced inactivity, but the “comeback” was starting to look less like a hill and more like a mountain.

Still, my hernia felt fine and my tennis game was holding up. I figured I’d just push through. Back home, I even booked a coach to get me ready for competitive club play.

All systems go, or so I thought.

The event that felt like a non-event

After returning from holiday, I tried to make up for lost time with a 5-day exercise streak. On day four, I got on the bike at home and felt, quite frankly, knackered. For the first time ever, I had to stop early. Usually, my heart rate would be around 130 bpm, but on this occasion I was getting exhausted at 115 and eventually had to stop completely. No chest pains, no dramatic “lightbulb” moment of agony — just overwhelming, bone-deep exhaustion.

The next day — Thursday — I woke up feeling exhausted and put it down to a touch of overtraining. I spent most of the day taking it easy but couldn’t shake off the feeling of tiredness. Around 8 pm, my wife asked me to move the car while she hopped in the shower. As I stepped outside into the driveway, it hit:

• A wave of nausea.

• A sudden, cold, clammy sweat.

• And a general sense of: This isn’t good.

There were no Hollywood-style scenes of me clutching my chest and collapsing into the hydrangeas. It was almost banal. I walked down the road for some fresh air, felt a slight tightness in my chest, and realised — with a strange, calm certainty:

I’m having a heart attack.

And I’m standing in the street where no one can find me.

The sliding doors moment

I gingerly made it back inside and called up to my wife:

“Please call an ambulance. I think I’ve had a heart attack.”

Because I was conscious and breathing, I was triaged as a non-emergency case. In fact, after sitting around for a bit and the obligatory soluble aspirin, I did that classic man thing and suggested we cancel the ambulance because I felt “much better”.

Thankfully, my wife has more sense than I do.

When the paramedics arrived at 11 pm, the sliding doors moment happened. Life as a person ended; life as a patient began. Strapped to an ECG, wheeled onto a gurney, and masked up (thanks to the tail end of COVID-19), I was whisked away to A&E.

Mystery solved — with zero bedside manner

By midnight, I was in a cubicle, bored, restless and alone. I even took a selfie to use as an “amusing anecdote” later. I was convinced I’d be home by breakfast.

Eventually, a doctor strode past. He had the walk of a man with a very long to-do list that definitely didn’t include me.

Me: “Excuse me, Doctor? When can I get out of here?”

Doctor (glancing at my charts with all the warmth of a broken radiator):

“You won’t be going anywhere. You’ve had a heart attack.”

And with that, he put the chart back, turned and went back to his day.

No fanfare. No drama. Just the start of a very different journey for me…

Until next time 👋

This is Part 1 of my Cardiac Diary. In the next post, I’ll dive into what happens when you officially become “The Patient” — and the reality of life on a cardiac ward.

Have you ever had a gut feeling that something was wrong, even when it didn’t feel like a “typical” emergency? Let me know in the comments.

In the meantime, try the NHS Heart Age Calculator. This will compare your real age to your heart age by asking you questions about your health. You'll also find out how to improve your heart age by making some healthy lifestyle changes. Your heart age will give you an estimate of how healthy your heart is. Give it a go.

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

Are we just living longer… or better?

We’ve all said daft things when we were young. Very few of us, though, had those words immortalised in one of the most iconic songs in British rock history.

Step forward Pete Townshend of The Who.

He was about 20 when he wrote My Generation, complete with the line:

“I hope I die before I get old.”

Fast-forward six decades and he’s still going strong. Awkward? Perhaps. But when asked about it later, Townshend clarified that the lyric was about a state of mind, rather than chronological age.

Which raises the question:

What does “getting old” actually mean?

Years in your life vs life in your years

The good news is we’re living longer than any previous generation. According to the Office for National Statistics (ONS), life expectancy in England is around:

• 79 years for men

• 83 years for women

On the surface, that sounds like progress.

But here’s the catch: healthy life expectancy — the number of years spent in good health — is significantly lower.

For women in England, healthy life expectancy is just over 61 years. That means more than 21 years may be lived in poor health. For men, the figure is just over 18 years.

By any measure, that’s a substantial slice of life in poor health.

So the real question isn’t simply “How long will we live?”

It’s “How long will we live in good health?”

What is lifespan?

Lifespan is the total number of years lived — the time between birth and death. The longest verified human lifespan remains that of ‘supercentenarian’ Jeanne Calment, who lived to the ripe old age of 122.

A 2016 study from the Albert Einstein College of Medicine suggested that human lifespan may plateau at around 115-125 years, with the chances of living to 125 in any given year at less than 1 in 10,000. However, this finding remains contested by other researchers.

So, despite the noise from longevity influencers, we’re not on the brink of routinely living to 150.

Useful lifespan related terms:

• Life expectancy — the average number of years a person is expected to live, based on current mortality rates.

• Premature death — in the UK, typically defined as death before age 75.

• Longevity — often used to describe relatively long survival within a population (for example, in so-called Blue Zones).

But while lifespan grabs the headlines, it isn’t the number most of us should obsess over.

Introducing healthspan

Healthspan (or healthy life expectancy) is the number of years lived in good health — free from significant disease, disability or cognitive decline.

Where lifespan counts years, healthspan counts healthy years.

It’s about:

• Staying independent

• Moving well

• Thinking clearly

• Avoiding long periods of frailty

The uncomfortable truth is that in the UK, the gap between lifespan and healthspan is large — and, in some cases, widening.

Your superpower: compressed morbidity

Thanks to the advances made in the developed world with medicine and healthcare, we’ve seen lifespan increase, but many people still spend a prolonged period managing:

• Cardiovascular disease

• Cancer

• Frailty

• Dementia

This period of illness is called morbidity.

The ultimate goal isn’t to eliminate ageing. It’s to compress morbidity — staying well for as long as possible, followed by a relatively short decline at the very end of life.

I’d be happy to settle for an active life, then a brief illness at the end, rather than twenty years of gradual decline.

That’s a far more realistic — and appealing — ambition than many years of medical interventions, drugs and infirmity.

The pillars of healthspan

The encouraging news? The biggest drivers of healthspan aren’t experimental drugs or cryogenic chambers. They’re simple things you can manage every day of the week:

• Healthy Movement: Regular physical activity reduces disease risk across almost every category.

• Healthy Muscles: Muscle mass and strength are strongly associated with lower mortality risk and maintained independence.

• Healthy Eating: Mediterranean-style eating patterns consistently correlate with longer healthy lifespan.

• Healthy Sleep and Stress Management: Poor sleep and chronic stress accelerate cardiovascular and cognitive ageing.

• Healthy Social Connections: Strong social ties are linked to lower mortality risk. Isolation carries measurable health consequences.

It’s true they aren’t as sexy as some of the advice from the usual influencers, but there’s no need for potions, pills or cold plunges - and you can still eat toast if you want to.

The takeaway

Pete Townshend may have been onto something after all. Getting older is inevitable. But “getting old” — in the sense of prolonged frailty — isn’t entirely beyond our influence.

We may not be able to dramatically extend the outer limits of our lifespan. But we can influence how many of our years are lived well.

And that seems a far better goal than chasing immortality.

Until next time.👋

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.

In 2025, I reached 65 and officially became “old”. Or so the Office for National Statistics tells me. I’ve joined the 12.5 million people in the UK—around 18% of the population—in the same boat. Despite being reluctant to join my fellow ancient mariners, things are already looking up. Before 1974, I’d have been unceremoniously filed under “the elderly”. Now, thanks to gerontologist Bernice Neugarten, I’m part of the more palatable “Young-old” for the next few years. A small linguistic tweak, perhaps, but one that blows a welcome bit of wind into my ageing sails.

Instead of stepping into the “waiting room for death”, I’m apparently entering the “third age”—a stage defined not by frailty and decline but by the freedom that emerges when the grind of work recedes. For those that can afford it, leisure, purpose and community begin to take centre stage. What’s more, we’re a rapidly growing tribe, expected to expand by another 17% in the coming years—a kind of second baby boom, only with a few more aches and pains.

But statistics only get you so far. What does this actually mean for people like us? How do we use whatever time we have left to be happy, healthy and independent? I’ve always fancied the idea of wearing out rather than rusting—though ideally not just yet. if you’ve reached my age, you’ve likely hit a few bumps in the road—I certainly have (more about them next time). But I try to keep one thought front and centre: growing older is an extraordinary privilege. For countless people across history—and many today—it’s an experience they never got to have. Remembering that helps me face the years ahead with a little more curiosity, a little more courage, and a lot more gratitude.

Which brings me to why I’m starting this blog. Now that I’m a permanent resident in ‘Olderland’ I hope to have some adventures exploring what ageing well could look like, and then share the results with you—whether they help, amuse, or simply demonstrate what not to do. Think of me as part journalist, part lab rat, and a willing crash-test dummy for all things ageing. If you’re a new arrival to Olderland or just visiting, you’re welcome to join me. My ‘Adventures in Olderland’ are just getting started.

Until next time.👋

Medical Disclaimer: This article is for general information only and does not constitute medical advice. The needs of every reader are unique; please consult your GP or a qualified healthcare professional before making changes to your diet, exercise routine, or medication. Never ignore professional medical advice because of something you read online.