Over the weekend I did a good test over the internet - on When I would Die.

It seems I will keel over in 2039 of a heart attack, at the age of 80. It might have been in April, but I can't quite remember.

Not sure I am that inclined to look up what various diviners might wish to prognosticate about this, though I do remember that one C E O Carter reckoned it was more a question of looking for indications of a merciful release than anything else.

When I bought a flat a couple of years ago, I do remember the touching concern for my well-being displayed by the insurance companies and the bank as I got sent for heavy-duty testing of what my liability towards mortality in the near future might be. Vials of my life-bloood were syphoned away and discretely appropriated, as I was hooked up to arcane instruments designed to scrutinise the health of my ticker and my blood pressure, there were deep stares into my eyes as I was asked how much wine and coffee I consume and how often I contemplate suicide or shoot up heroin.

Actually,I nearly met my maker a few years ago when an incoming suburban train caught my elbow.

It did occur to me then that rushing around like the proverbial rabbit in Wonderland over deadlines could make nonsense out of the idea that the lousy day job might be worth dying for.

Bury me in my dodgy black velvet and lace, along with my totally useless artwork. Some of us have come a lomg way since the glory days of the Black Hole......eh?... Mr and Ms Corporate.

I also have an excellent book on strange deaths, though some of them sound suspiciously like urban legends. My mother has suggested that maybe I might like to inherit the books when she goes - in that case, I hope she remembers to bequeath me 'The Trouble with Harry' which she confiscated from me when she caught me reading it at the age of 8 or 9, because it was 'not suitable.'