“What’s your BMI?” asks Norman, and my heart sinks so hard, I wonder if it’ll affect my life insurance premiums. That’s what Norman is sorting out for me. I’ve been long overdue an overhaul of this sort of thing, the stuff that nobody tells you will occupy your life as you hit middle age. But Norman lives for this. He likes jogging and Sky Sports and we don’t have much in common. He’s moving to, his words, “One of the most contemporary houses you’ve ever seen,” soon. I have been wondering what that might look like. I imagine Stormzy wallpaper, a garage made of upcycled coffee cups and a soft-close bidet that does Instagram. Or something.
Again he asks: “What’s your BMI?” I resort to my usual Emergency Joke tactics and lamely give it a go: “I think in terms of BMI, I’m right in the middle of the category ‘Deceased’.”