My Victor Chang Heart Health Check was held outside Bakers Delight at the local shopping centre. Nurse Roger did my finger prick and told me about his grandson while we waited for the verdict on my ticker.

I was enjoying myself. Makes me sound like a suck, but I love tests. Can’t resist an “Are you a genius?” quiz, would welcome a breathalyser around almost any corner. And – non-smoker, still in gym gear from one of five weekly workouts, have had Uber Eats twice ever – I anticipated excellent results.

I was pretty much only doing the check because it was free, and my grandad Jack died of a heart attack at age 58. My age.

“Blood pressure – perfect,” said Roger. “Well done. Blood sugar … textbook.” Then, a thoughtful look. “Oh. Cholesterol. Above normal range.” Stop. What? As in, requiring medication? “Maybe. It’s up there,” he said. “I recommend you see your GP for a full blood work-up.”

And in the flash of a finger prick, I turned into the hot new thing: The mid-lifer obsessed with health.

For years, I had no time for general health quibbles, mired as I was in the menopause comedy. But that’s just a phase. It finishes and you go on. Now I’m part of something different: talking about the ravages of age, a shit-show that ends only when you’re toes up.

Everyone’s doing it. Surely, you are. Yesterday, our social conversations were about finding a partner, raising kids, career war stories, whether margaritas need sugar syrup. Now? All we talk about are bone density scans, whose statins are working better, colonoscopy prep tips. Land tax is the only real challenger.

“Oh, you’re on Lipitora? Made my muscles ache. Now I’m on some new thing, I’ll send the name.” “My sugar levels are erratic, so my doctor thinks I’m pre-diabetic.” “Is your orthopaedic guy taking new patients?”

That’s assuming we ever organise an outing to hash over these body betrayals. Choosing a venue? Harder than the Fibonacci sequence.