“You wouldn’t bet against your own team, would you? So how could you bet against your body?”

Terry remembered feeling disgusted down at the Social thirty years ago, when the arrival of smartphone betting threw club loyalty into the wind.

“So you’re screaming for your team against Arsenal – but you’ve got a side bet that Thierry Henry will score the winner against you! How does that work?!”

Yet, here he was, putting a fiver on getting a TIA in the next twelve months, and a chest infection before the year was out.

He had done alright with BodyBet so far though. £250 for a blocked ear that needed three visits before his hearing came back. £500 last winter for that emergency tooth extraction – even though that barely paid the dentist’s invoice.

Who would have thought that BodyBet would be allowed, never mind that it would take off? It all started with the DNA traits business. Who could object to a dad-to-be putting a few quid on whether his child would be left-handed like mum, or blue-eyed like himself? Ever since that old firm Paddypower had showed that betting could be about more than sport, the field was thrown open.  BodyBet took off in all directions: Would your daughter develop a thyroid problem like granny?  Would your son be dyslexic like grandad? Would you get diabetes – and if so, at what age?

The lock had been broken, and the lid came right off.  And it wasn’t just a matter of life, but of death too.  The funeral market got into presenting an offer you can’t refuse: Bet what you will die of and you can pay for your funeral, and some of your care costs too. Could even be a nice little legacy for the grandkids after all!

Of course the Government got involved, introducing ‘no pay’ if there was any question of self-harm, of suspicious harm or infections, or of suicide itself. In which case, all bets were off. Medical adjudicators became as hated as premiership referees. A thumbs down from them and you will be going nowhere.

Terry’s mind was on romance. He had a date, and dates didn’t come around that often these days. She wasn’t a stranger though, he and Adrianne had a thing going since back in the 80s, while she was still married. They worked together at WH Smith’s at Sloane Square back in the 80s. She had a twinkle in her eye when she used to hand over his wages’ envelope: the only time in his life when an embarrassing surname had come good for him.

Terry stayed in touch with Adrianne when husband ejected her in the 90s. Terry knew he was only a port in the storm for her, and they parted as friends. They had a regular catch up with a drink at the Royal Court ever since those days, before she went her way home on the Circle line and he went his.

But now, her flirting days were over and when they got together she liked to get intimate, as she put it. Suited Terry down to the ground. He had been on his own for twenty years and was always happy with her company. He had a message from her that she was arriving soon after a trip away, so he got his jacket on, and set off to Waitrose to get those chocolates and flowers that she always liked. And that perfume for himself. Her favourite.

It was a week later. He woke up and she was at his bedside. A hospital bed. Her eyes brightened as she saw him stir.

“On Terry, I thought you were leaving me!”

“Adrianne, what’s all this?”

“You’ve been out cold for 9 days Terry. It’s all my fault. I got that Ribola in Gambia. I was vaccinated but you weren’t, and we got together…”

“Don’t blame yourself love, I’ll be fine”’

“But you won’t be fine, will you?” Her voice choked. “After what you lost… I can’t bear to tell you.”

It took time for Terry to get used to it. To be fair, it could have been much worse. As soon as she said she was off to Gambia he was straight off too – to the bookies. He would have bit your arm off for the way it turned out, just a big toe lost.

Medical amputation leading to reduced mobility, that put him on the right side of the line for disability accommodation, he’d picked up six grand from BodyBet, and Adrianne was permanently in his debt.

“I wouldn’t kick her out of bed”, he muttered to himself.