"It's because you talk too much," said my wife. "You want to give your voice a rest once in a while."

My doctor was rather more sympathetic and I was sent for an X-ray to the hospital. So much is said and written about the failings of the NHS, but I have to say that I received five-star treatment. I sat with my book in an easy chair in a comfortable lounge area with a cup of coffee waiting for my name to be called. It wasn't long before a smiling and chatty nurse took me to have the X-ray.

A week later I was back. They had discovered something. Then followed a battery of tests, all done with cheerfulness and accompanied by an explanation of what was happening.

The specialist appeared, introduced himself and I followed him into a room smelling of antiseptic. Leaning over me with a long, thin piece of tube-like equipment, he explained that the bronchoscopy would be a little uncomfortable when the probe went down the back of my throat and into my lungs but it would soon be over.

"It sounds quite fun," I managed to murmur. I eyed the tube. "I hope it's had a thorough wash," I told him. "I hazard to think what other orifices it's explored."

He smiled and assured me this equipment was used solely for lungs.

It was the speech therapist (a Joanna Lumley look-alike) who did the endoscopy (the tube this time went up my nose and down the back of my throat) – another fun experience. All was explained to me and I watched in fascination as the miniature camera displayed my insides on a small screen. "You can have a copy of the photographs if you like," said the smiling nurse who held my hand throughout.

"Great," I croaked. "I'll put it in my album next to the holiday snaps."

"Well?" said my wife when I arrived home.

"I've got to go back for the results next week," I told her, "and in the meantime try to rest my voice."

She gave a hollow laugh.

The following week I was called into the specialist's office.

He sat behind his desk, half moon spectacles perched on the end of his nose, a wadge of papers before him. He tapped the desk with his pen for a moment as if considering what to say. I feared the worst.

He took a deep breath. "Before I go through the test results, Mr Phinn," he said, "May I ask you something?"

I knew it, I thought, my heart thumping in my chest and my throat becoming dry. It's serious. He's going to ask me if I have made a will. I nodded. "Yes, of course," I managed to mouth. He reached into a drawer and produced a copy of my latest Dales book which he passed across the desk. He smiled. "My wife is a big fan of yours," he said. "I wonder if I might trouble you to sign this for her?" With trembling hand I wrote my name. There was something on my throat he explained but it was a damaged cartilage which was not life-threatening. He suggested, however, that I might undergo a course of speech therapy. "I don't think I will find that too arduous," I said, thinking of the breathing exercises I would be doing with the Joanna Lumley lookalike.