A Guardian Angel?

Acting under advice from my wife I'm going to let the subject of the parking vigilante drop. She says it's bad for my blood pressure, and also rightly points out that the activities of a self-appointed traffic warden telling people they can't park in his street don't really matter as I've only been down that road twice in the last five years. Once I went to the climbing centre, once to the sport pavilion. Neither of them are my natural habitat so she's probably right. Anyway, hassling motorists is probably the only thing giving meaning to his life. Without this hobby he may die, she says. Personally I don't have a problem with that.

Talking about death, I met a man who has died three times today. Or, to be more accurate - I met a man today who has died three times. I was eating a scone, talking to my wife and minding my own business in Tesco. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, scone halfway to my mouth, expecting to see an acquaintance. A friend would not have interfered with my eating.

"I've got diabetes." a complete stranger said. What do you say to that. "Congratulations" didn't seem appropriate. That was the start of a long story of diabetes, pain, death, how he used to be overweight (he kept looking at me for some reason when he discussed weight). Anyway, he eventually left.

Now, at this point I have to confess that I don't sit comfortably within the confines of the standard NHS Body Mass Index chart. The "X" that marks my spot on the chart misses the dark red "Life Threateningly Obese" zone and finds a convenient space in the margin to call its own. I am, I confess, about two feet too short for my height. But I don't need a passing stranger to tell me this. I have noticed.

Then blow me, he came back for another go, in case I had missed the point earlier on, or in case I was in danger of enjoying my scone.

My wife thinks he was a guardian angel sent to warn me about my health.

Me, I think I'm going to stop eating at Tesco.