Want to know the wrong way to make an impression at the dinner party your husband’s boss is hosting?
Several years ago I was diagnosed with Neurocardiogenic Syncope, which sounds a lot more impressive than it is. Basically it means from time to time, if certain factors like a soaring heart rate, prolonged acute pain, or oppressive heat are in play, I crumple to the ground like a losing lottery ticket.
It’s not an enormously life-changing medical condition – for which I am grateful. But it is inconvenient unless you happen to be a character in a Jane Austen novel where swooning was quite the thing to do. Its effects on my life are fairly limited – forcing me to give up fencing, keeping me out of saunas, and, apparently, occasionally leading to spectacles in front of the hub’s colleagues.