To be perfectly honest, having quite shamelessly made you wait in suspense (several friends have contacted to ask if he’s ok… and what does he do but wreck my carefully-crafted cliff-hanger by responding to one of them himself?) the rest of that day was a bit of an anti-climax.

They measured his pulse. Gosh, they said: that’s seriously impressive. Then his blood pressure. Wow: even more impressive.

Well, he said, almost modestly (I’ve never seen him like that before), I do aim to keep well.

And then spoilt it all by telling them exactly what his heart rate usually is first thing in the morning; half way through a bike ride; after a bike ride; when he’s asleep in bed… and all the other figures you’d only know if you were a real saddo fitness freak.

And after a while, eventually, they left… rather reluctantly. On the way out admiring Shaun’s dog’s comically sad clown-face looking out from the dining room where he’d been shut away according to instructions.

I used to have a Great Dane, said one of them.

And faced with the news that he wasn’t dying after all, 2nd Y pulled himself together and made us a delicious barbecue on Friday evening.

I should have known. Really I should. Looking back, 2nd Y has never, ever, ever in his life complained of pain before.

Not when, aged twelve, he did an overambitious forward-flip on an Alp and was airlifted away in a lovely red copter, with a dislocated shoulder which meant he could never really play school contact footie again.

Not when he had an op in Ely thinking he could bike back afterwards to sing Evensong in Cambridge and had to be told by the consultant that he must call his mother to collect him (and bicycle).

Nor when, just before lock-down, he had his frenula surgically slit and couldn’t speak then, either.

Not even when his best friend died in traumatic circumstances did he actually talk about the pain he was in, though it was pretty obvious to all. Just joked and joshed in his usual robust way about how much Jonny himself would have laughed, that when he finally went to the park for a good old cry in the gloaming a few weeks later, a bloke came on to him.

But he had been saying his throat was hurting. We should have taken it a bit more seriously.

Yesterday morning I received a text message before breakfast saying he really thought he needed a doctor. He mentioned tonsillitis.

The lovely ambulance chappies (surely trained to know if someone has tonsillitis?) had told us that, contrary to popular conception and mine, there are still GPs in this country available to answer the telephone.

Saturday. Please ring NHS one one one.

I sigh, brace myself to be asked whether it’s an emergency and get someone who can only talk to the patient.

Name? she asks him.

Uh, he groans.

Are you breathing?

Uh.

Have you lost a lot of blood?

Uh.

(Have you died and gone to Heaven?

Uhhhh!)

Eventually someone rings back who asks a few questions which I answer on his behalf, says the patient is fine and I will eventually get a call from a “clinician” about taking him into a “centre”.

I’m sorry, I say, but I don’t know exactly what a clinician is.

A doctor, he says as if to complete idiot. I’m a clinician.

Are you a doctor? I ask.

No, he says. I’m a trained qualified specialist pharmaceutical advising consultant.

Thank you, I say.

And hang up and dial nine nine nine.

He didn’t tell you to do that, Youngest queries.

No, I say. He was a moron.

Doc rings back pretty quickly, before ambulance arrives. 2nd Y has dragged himself out of bed now, and every time he is asked a question he bangs the furniture violently in howling agony.

The house shakes with the pain he is in.

Quinsy, the doctor pronounces eventually. Complication arising from untreated tonsillitis, needs to see an ENT specialist immediately, you’ll have to take him to Stevenage A&E.

Fortunately, Bedford Hospital had an ENT specialist on call and we were there within minutes.

(Also fortunately, for me – don’t ever tell anyone I said this, and certainly not any members of my family – I am not allowed to wait with him, because of contamination issues. I’d rather drown myself in the Ouse than hang around a hospital ending my life slowly expiring out of sheer boredom.)

TELL THEM YOU’RE A SINGER!! I suddenly text him in wild panic at the loss of his career.

What on earth for?

So they don’t damage your vocal chords (I’m a tad dyslexic), duh.

They aren’t going anywhere near my vocal cords. (So is he, but obviously not quite as dyslexic as I am, coloured spectacles and all.)

Duh.

Few hours, prods, jabs, more howling agony and the lancing of an abscess the size of a golf ball in his throat later, I pick him up and he is home, his skin the colour of parchment, arms full of pills, shaking slightly and still not up to his usual offensive banter… but able to talk; and quite soon afterwards, eat.

Admittedly, it’s not particularly brilliant that because all of us (including doctors, NHS one one one and paramedics) are only thinking of one thing, a case of tonsillitis went untreated for several weeks.

But there genuinely are beneficial side effects to this dreadful, evil, wicked plague that is sweeping the world.

When I put the key in the ignition I honestly wondered whether I could remember how to drive.

(Yes, yes I know: my family thinks I must do that every time I put the key in the ignition and the answer must be somewhere near the negative end of the spectrum… it’s true I don’t believe in cars. But even so, our motor hadn’t had any exercise for over a month.)

Which is seriously good for the world’s health: it really is.

We got to the hospital quicker than it would take to walk.

No parking charges.

He was seen almost immediately.

I wouldn’t wish any of this on anybody. But given we are here now, wouldn’t it be lovely if our cars just stayed put. Except in an emergency?

And we all only went to A&E when it is a real, genuine emergency?

And let’s face it, what could be more pleasant than 2nd Y at home, well enough not to die but not quite well enough to swear and insult us all?

A phase which, sadly, didn’t last very long.