A big black rat was sighted in our kitchen … so off I went to our local IGA to pick up a rat trap.

Unfortunately they were out of traps, so I bought some poison.

It was a fluoro green colour and boasted on the outside of the packet that it was “irresistible” to rodents.

I took it home and opened one little box, which I placed in a corner of the pantry.

The most amazing thing was it happened overnight, almost immediately. Because mid-morning the next day a big hairy black rat wandered out of the wall, obviously hallucinating, leant against a chair and said: “Excuse me, could I have a glass of water please?”

This has happened three times now.

The last one actually lifted the lid to the garbage bin himself, climbed inside, bidding me a fond farewell with an overly friendly wave and saying: “Don’t worry, the truck will be here soon enough … you couldn’t get me a glass of water could you?”

That rat poison is some serious stuff.

The heart of the matter

Since my heart attack, I’ve coloured in, connected the dots, played solitaire, attempted a 3D puzzle and completed a 1000-piece jigsaw.

To say I’m climbing the walls with boredom is to understate the situation.

I had to go back to work, I just couldn’t watch one more episode of Ready, Steady, Cook! I suspect Peter Everetts may have a touch of the Dorothy’s.

And when you think about it, what does my work entail really? I don’t lift anything, there’s no exertion involved, oh, unless I lift my left cheek. That’s about it.

I just sit and talk. That’s my skill. I just sit and talk.

And before that, I had a gift, another gift – I was a puppet. I used to lie there and talk.

Makes you wonder how I ever had a heart attack in the first place when you think about how little I’ve done.

The best call of all

I have had some wonderful calls from people wishing me well after my hospital stay. Bob Abbot took the time to have a candid chat about health, fitness and playing some blues together.

There was a very strange message left by the super-fit trainer at the gym, oblivious to the fact that I’ve had a heart attack, reminding me to meet her at the gym tomorrow for a workout – oh der!

The best call of all came one afternoon while I was sitting on the lounge with 10-year-old Jackson. It was from Wally Lewis, a man I have admired my whole life, the greatest footballer ever to strap on a boot.

So enamoured with him was I that Jackson’s middle name is actually Lewis, after the man himself.

I couldn’t believe someone who has been through a massive health scare himself over the past year-and-a-half, culminating in a brain operation just a few months ago, had taken the time to ring me.

“Jamie,” he said, “if there is ever anything I can do on-air or off-air, just give me a call.”

By this time, Jackson had figured out that his namesake was on the phone and because I have shown him every piece of Wally Lewis football footage ever released, Jackson has the same hero worship problems as his father.

He stood there in front of me, mouth wide open, eyes as big as Tupperware bowls, mouthing the words: “I need a photograph!”

Without missing a beat, I said: “Wally – can I bring my son down for a photo with you?”

Jackson’s face lit up even more, I became momentarily concerned about his heart! Wally replied: “Yeh, no problem mate, bring him down and I’ll give him a tour of Channel 9 while we are at it.”

Wally Lewis, you are a legend.

Back to school

I saw all the stories about Kevin Rudd going back to his old high school and the more I saw, the more I was convinced. Yes, he always was and probably always will be, a nerd.