Once a year I’m summoned to Neurology so a highly qualified person can check whether my central nervous system is still legally allowed on public roads. The appointment letter alone is terrifying. NEUROLOGY DEPARTMENT Nothing cheerful has ever followed those words. You never see: NEUROLOGY DEPARTMENT 🎉 GREAT NEWS AND BISCUITS 🎉 So naturally, for three weeks beforehand, I convince myself this is the appointment where they finally discover I’ve developed MS PRO MAX. I arrive early. Receptionist: “Take a seat.” Excellent. Already lost use of my legs. Waiting room is silent. Seven people staring at the floor. One bloke coughing. A clock going TICK... TICK... TICK... Feels like we’re waiting to find out which one of us has been selected as tribute. Then: “Andrew?” Fuck. Tell my family I loved them. I enter. Neurologist: “How are you?” “Good thanks, you?” Why the FUCK did I ask him? He hasn't got MS. Focus. “Any new symptoms?” At 85 months, mate, you're going to have to be more specific. My body's been running Windows with corrupted drivers since 2019. Pins and needles? We've got those. Stiffness? Yep. Fatigue? Pre-installed. Random leg malfunction? Known bug. Sometimes my foot doesn't lift properly. Sometimes my bladder sends emails marked URGENT. Sometimes I stand up and every muscle below my nipples holds an emergency meeting. Unless something falls off, I'm reluctant to open another support ticket. Then the physical examination begins. “Follow my finger with your eyes.” 👀 Fine. “Don't move your head.” Head immediately follows finger. Brilliant. 85 months with MS and apparently I've forgotten how eyes work. Then he pulls out the little rubber hammer. Here we fucking go. BONK. Leg kicks. He writes something. BONK. Other leg kicks. More writing. I have no idea what the scoring system is. Am I winning? Do you want bigger kicks? BONK. 🦵💨 FUCKING HAVE THAT. Put that in the notes. Then: “Push against my hands.” I push. “Harder.” I push harder. Suddenly I'm wrestling a neurologist. For one glorious moment I forget I've got MS and start wondering whether I can take him. He releases. “Good.” Yeah. You fucking know it is. Then comes: “Close your eyes and touch your nose.” Bit ambitious. But okay. Eyes closed. Finger out. And... BOOP. Nose. YES. Still know where my face is. 85 MONTHS AND STILL 100% NOSE ACCURACY. Then the bastard gets ambitious. “Walk heel-to-toe in a straight line.” Excuse me? I've come for a neurological assessment, not to prove to South Wales Police that I'm safe to drive. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Every surviving neuron has now been called into work. Brain: RIGHT LADS, CANCEL ALL NON-ESSENTIAL SERVICES. Memory OFF. Bladder HOLD. Left leg, stop being a prick for TEN SECONDS. WE'RE WALKING. And somehow... I fucking nail it. My left leg, which at home sometimes moves like it's being controlled by Wi-Fi from next door, suddenly behaves perfectly. Of course it does. Neurologist watching? PRIME USAIN BOLT. Trying to carry shopping into the house? Victorian pirate. Then he asks me to walk normally. I straighten up. Chest out. Head high. And begin my annual neurological catwalk. ✨🚶✨ Look at me. Fucking magnificent. You'd never know half my nervous system is held together with Kesimpta, caffeine and administrative optimism. Then we look at my MRI. My brain appears on the screen. There it is. The troublesome little bastard. Neurologist points at a white blob. I lean forward. “Mmm, yes.” I have absolutely no fucking clue. Could be a lesion. Could be the bit responsible for balance. Could be Swansea. He could point at my ear and say “that's your hippocampus” and I'd probably nod. Eventually he sits back. “Overall, you’re doing well.” ... Sorry? That's it? I've spent three weeks mentally preparing to be informed that my nervous system has been repossessed. Instead I've followed a finger, kicked a hammer, found my own nose and walked across a carpet. PASSED. Walked in expecting neurological Nuremberg. Walked out apparently still roadworthy. Then something wonderful happens. I realise: I've got the morning off work. And there's a Costa. ☕️ Suddenly the entire emotional landscape changes. This isn't a hospital appointment anymore. THIS IS AN MS SPA DAY. Little walk. Couple of reflex bonks. Quick photograph of my brain. Caramel latte. Lovely. And sitting there with my coffee, I actually think... 85 months with MS. And I'm still here. Still working. Still training. Still walking. Still laughing. Still looking pretty fucking good considering my immune system once looked at my central nervous system and thought: “I reckon we should fuck that up.” These appointments can actually be a useful reminder. When you live with MS every day, you notice every stumble, every tired day, every bit that isn't working. Sometimes you need someone with a tiny hammer to remind you how much still is. There's a few miles left in this old dog yet. Engine management light permanently on. Tracking's fucked. Electrics temperamental. Suspension questionable. Occasional smoke from somewhere that absolutely shouldn't be smoking. But she's still moving. Not ready for the scrapyard yet. Anyway... Great appointment. Good news. Lovely Costa. Feeling genuinely optimistic. Got home. Sat down. And now I am so fucking tired I may actually be dead. See you next year. 🧠🔨☕️😂