Maggie, the station host, noticed a passenger who looked unwell. Really unwell.

She tried to convince her to come into the office to sit down.

The lady didn’t want to. She wanted to catch her train; she was going to see her doctor. Paraphrased:

“Please come in and sit down. You look unwell. I think I’d better call you an ambulance.”

“What if I ring your doctor? What’s his number?” Rings.

“Even your doctor says call an ambulance! I’m ringing it now!”

“I’m good. Thank you — I was about to have a stroke. You saved my life.”

I may never save a life. But if I’m ever in that position, I hope I have the presence of mind to know what to do.

When will I learn? Last week someone at work had fundraiser chocolate for sale. Two bars and $4 later… This week? Pimples.

I seem to be getting a pot belly, too. Well, a little bit. No danger of going up to the next trouser size… yet.

Need to keep decreasing the inputs (better diet) and increasing the outputs (more exercise). I confess, the grand plan of riding my bike every weekend has come off the rails, too. Bad me.

Of course, efforts to lay off the chocolate for a bit have already come unstuck. Apart from Easter next week, I just won an Easter hamper.

At least the fluffy toys won’t give me pimples.

Warning: This post has been flagged TMI (Too Much Information). You have been warned.

Hair on my head gets lopped off by the barber every month or two; whenever it seems to long (getting wavy at the top is usually the indicator for me) and I have the inclination to stop looking like a long-haired weirdo (as I often did in my teens) and get it cut.

Facial hair comes off daily with my electric razor, a Philishave, except Sundays when I generally don’t bother shaving. If I’m in a rush it can sometimes be less than a precision operation, leaving a few strays behind. (Was it Billy Connolly who talked about the cunning hairs that lie down when they see a blade coming?)

Nasal hair sometimes grows alarmingly fast, and will occasionally get plucked. (Past experiments with this have proven somewhat painful at times.)

Little hairs seem to spout out of my ears, too. I don’t know if this is an argument against Intelligent Design, but what the purpose of this is, I really don’t know. When they’re too numerous, tweezers can get them out.

Underarm hair? Gets a very occasional trim when it seems excessively bushy. The shaver has a beard trimmer, which, given I never have a beard (tried it once, didn’t like it) can get used for this.

Back, leg and chest hair I leave well alone, though sometimes a lone hair will grow out of a mole on my back, until (with great difficulty) it’s plucked out.

Which just leaves… well, the rest. As it happens, this can get pretty hairy — and yes, occasionally, it deserves a trim too. Very careful use of the scissors is generally what’s required. Wouldn’t want to catch anything other than hairs in the blades, after all. I don’t think I’d go the full shave thing, but I know that some people out there do.

A friend of a friend is sick. Dying. Body riddled with cancer. Months to live.

He’s not young, but not old, and by all accounts he’s a good guy. He’s told people that he wants to hear now, whatever they were planning to say after he was gone.

He’s a religious man. His whole family are. Their faith must be consoling them.

But it must be a horrible thing to deal with.

I’m not sure I’d want to know.

No, on second thoughts, I would want to know. I wouldn’t want to waste my last days/weeks/months of time on Earth.

One of the funniest things I’ve ever read on the blogosphere was Kathryn, who smokes, ranting about non-smokers. Others must have found it amusing too, as it was nominated for the Best Post on an Australian Blog for that year.

But… I hate smoking.

I know the chemicals in tobacco make smoking incredibly addictive for many people. Having seen people I know try (and fail in some cases) to quit, it can obviously be very difficult.

And I know that most people who smoke are genuinely considerate of others when they do so, and try and avoid getting their smoke everywhere.

But it’s still a disgusting smelly filthy dangerous habit.

Inevitably the God damn smoke gets everywhere, fouling up the air on the footpaths. I don’t want the bloody stuff in my lungs.

And omigod the stink. Do smokers have any idea how feckin’ bad their breath smells? No wonder smokers don’t usually date non-smokers. It’s gross, and it’s not just in the vicinity — the smell from a heavy smoker is like an aura. They get into a lift and the whole thing stinks. Everybody within metres gets the whiff.

Even a quick drink in the pub means your clothes and your hair all have to be washed. And al fresco dining is inevitably accompanied by a smoky haze.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it could be contained. How about the smokers put bags over their heads or something, to stop it going everywhere, and spraying air freshener to cover up the smell? (Heath Robinson drew a cartoon portraying this, but I can’t find a copy of it right now.)

But even if they were just giving themselves lung cancer, why should the huge majority (around 77%) of non-smokers subsidise the humungous cost of lung cancer? Pushing smokers down the surgery priority list? Absolutely! Tax the crap out of them? Yes! Taxes on cigarettes don’t come close to paying the costs. (Old figures: revenue A$3.5b, costs A$6b/year; newer figures show up to A$21b/year costs.) Private health insurance charges higher premiums for smokers — maybe the Medicare levy should be higher too.

I know that most smokers do so because their parents smoked. I suppose I’m lucky mine didn’t.

For anybody who’s trying to quit, I honestly wish you the best of luck.

I was sitting doing some coding at work when The Posture Police arrived. The Chair Squad. The Ergonomic Inspectors.

Seriously, a team of three did a sweep through the office and checked every chair to make sure it was working properly, able to be adjusted, and offering the correct back support. Zowee.

It reminds me that my own desk setup at home is not serving me very well. Sure, the two Zed desks look okay, but I’m beginning to suspect they’re not ideal ergonomically. They’re too high (and they’re not adjustable), they have hard edges (apparently a no-no) and the straight edge at the front isn’t ideal. I’ve started getting arm pain when using the computer, something I first noted a few months after the desks arrived (I never did get a graphics tablet, as I mentioned in that post).

I don’t get that kind of pain at work, where both the chair and desk are more a standard corporate design. Nor was it a problem with the old desk.

So though the desks are only about a year old, I am seriously thinking about getting rid of them, in favour of something that’s adjustable, and more comfortable (and thus healthier) to use — even if it’s not as pretty.

And yes, I am considering the (apparently legendary) Ikea Jerker. Mind you, even getting some of those spongy wrist support thingies would probably help.

(No, I’m not going to get one of these Ergopod things.)

I know how much I’ve changed over the years. I’d like to think I’ve matured. My outlook on all sorts of things has altered. My lifestyle is radically different now from when I was 18 (if you think I’m a dag now, you should have seen me then), and has changed several times during that time.

Which is why I’m not keen on tattoos, especially big ones, and particularly on prominent parts of the body. Tattoos (along with vasectomies) are, for all intents and purposes, permanent. Sure, you can spend a bomb (if you have it) and you may be able to get them reversed/removed, but don’t count on it.

So it’s a bit like buying an item clothing that you’ll have to wear for the rest of your life. No matter what the circumstances, no matter how fashions change, no matter how you change. It might be okay if it’s small and/or concealable, but if it’s big, you’ll live with it forever.

Frankly, I’m not brave enough to assume that my sentiments on a big tattoo would be what I’d want displayed in 10, 20, 30 years. My outlook will keep changing, and so will my opinions and my situation.

Other people may be different, of course.

It may be the Christmas party season, but I’ve managed to miss two in the last couple of days.

One on Friday night that I was just too tired to contemplate attending (sorry Tony and Anna).

And another on Saturday, but a bout of Bowen Belly struck me down for the night. Not nice. (Sorry Trish et al).