Taking advantage of the unsuspected political asset represented by the President’s bodily functions, the White House staff decided to issue their medical bulletins on a weekly basis. Not only did Wall Street respond positively, but opinion polls showed a strong recovery by the Republican Party as a whole. By the time of the mid-term Congressional elections, the medical reports were issued daily, and successful Republican candidates swept to control of both House and Senate thanks to an eve-of-poll bulletin on the regularity of the Presidential bowels.

From then on the American public was treated to a continuous stream of information on the President’s health. Successive newscasts throughout the day would carry updates on the side-effects of a slight chill or the circulatory benefits of a dip in the White House pool. I well remember watching the news on Christmas Eve as my wife prepared our evening meal, and noticing that details of the President’s health occupied five of the six leading news items.

‘So his blood sugar is a little down,’ Susan remarked as she laid the festival table. ‘Good news for Quaker Oats and Pepsi.’

‘Really? Is there a connection, for heaven’s sake?’

‘Much more than you realise.’ She sat beside me on the sofa, peppermill in hand. ‘We’ll have to wait for his latest urinalysis. It could be crucial.’

‘Dear, what’s happening on the Pakistan border could be crucial. Gorbachev has threatened a pre-emptive strike against the rebel enclaves. The US has treaty obligations, theoretically a war could—’

‘Sh…’ Susan tapped my knee with the pepper-mill. ‘They’ve just run an Eysenck Personality Inventory — the old boy’s scored full marks on emotional resonance and ability to relate. Results corrected for age, whatever that means.’

‘It means he’s practically a basket case.’ I was about to change channels, hoping for some news of the world’s real troublespots, but a curious pattern had appeared along the bottom of the screen, some kind of Christmas decoration, I assumed, a line of stylised holly leaves. The rhythmic wave stabbed softly from left to right, accompanied by the soothing and nostalgic strains of ‘White Christmas’.

‘Good God…’ Susan whispered in awe. ‘It’s Ronnie’s pulse. Did you hear the announcer? “Transmitted live from the Heart of the Presidency”.’

This was only the beginning. During the next few weeks, thanks to the miracle of modern radio-telemetry, the nation’s TV screens became a scoreboard registering every detail of the President’s physical and mental functions. His brave, if tremulous, heartbeat drew its trace along the lower edge of the screen, while above it newscasters expanded on his daily physical routines, on the twenty-eight feet he had walked in the rose garden, the calorie count of his modest lunches, the results of his latest brain-scan, read-outs of his kidney, liver and lung function. In addition, there was a daunting sequence of personality and IQ tests, all designed to reassure the American public that the man at the helm of the free world was more than equal to the daunting tasks that faced him across the Oval Office desk.

For all practical purposes, as I tried to explain to Susan, the President was scarcely more than a corpse wired for sound. I and my colleagues at the paediatric clinic were well aware of the old man’s ordeal in submitting to this battery of tests. However, the White House staff knew that the American public was almost mesmerised by the spectacle of the President’s heartbeat. The trace now ran below all other programmes, accompanying sit-coms, basketball matches and old World War 2 movies. Uncannily, its quickening beat would sometimes match the audience’s own emotional responses, indicating that the President himself was watching the same war films, including those in which he had appeared.

To complete the identification of President and TV screen — a consummation of which his political advisers had dreamed for so long the White House staff arranged for further layers of information to be transmitted. Soon a third of the nation’s TV screens was occupied by print-outs of heartbeat, blood pressure and EEG readings. Controversy briefly erupted when it became clear that delta waves predominated, confirming the long-held belief that the President was asleep for most of the day. However, the audiences were thrilled to know when Mr Reagan moved into REM sleep, the dream-time of the nation coinciding with that of its chief executive.

Untouched by this endless barrage of medical information, events in the real world continued down their perilous road. I bought every newspaper I could find, but their pages were dominated by graphic displays of the Reagan health bulletins and by expository articles outlining the significance of his liver enzyme functions and the slightest rise or fall in the concentration of the Presidential urine. Tucked away on the back pages I found a few brief references to civil war in the Asiatic republics of the Soviet Union, an attempted pro-Russian putsch in Pakistan, the Chinese invasion of Nepal, the mobilisation of Nato and Warsaw Pact reserves, the reinforcement of the US 5th and 7th Fleets.

But these ominous events, and the threat of a Third World War, had the ill luck to coincide with a slight down-turn in the President’s health. First reported on 20 January, this trivial cold caught by Reagan from a visiting grandchild drove all other news from the television screens. An army of reporters and film crews camped outside the White House, while a task force of specialists from the greatest research institutions in the land appeared in relays on every channel, interpreting the stream of medical data.

Like a hundred million Americans, Susan spent the next week sitting by the TV set, eyes following the print-out of the Reagan heartbeat.

‘It’s still only a cold,’ I reassured her when I returned from the clinic on 27 January. ‘What’s the latest from Pakistan? There’s a rumour that the Soviets have dropped paratroops into Karachi. The Delta force is moving from Subik Bay…’

‘Not now!’ She waved me aside, turning up the volume as an anchorman began yet another bulletin.

‘…here’s an update on our report of two minutes ago. Good news on the President’s CAT scan. There are no abnormal variations in the size or shape of the President’s ventricles. Light rain is forecast for the DC area tonight, and the 8th Air Cavalry have exchanged fire with Soviet border patrols north of Kabul. We’ll be back after the break with a report on the significance of that left temporal lobe spike…’

‘For God’s sake, there’s no significance.’ I took the remote control unit from Susan’s clenched hand and began to hunt the channels. ‘What about the Russian Baltic Fleet? The Kremlin is putting counter-pressure on Nato’s northern flank. The US has to respond…’

By luck, I caught a leading network newscaster concluding a bulletin. He beamed confidently at the audience, his glamorous copresenter smiling in anticipation. as of 5:05 Eastern Standard Time we can report that Mr Reagan’s inter-cranial pressure is satisfactory. All motor and cognitive functions are normal for a man of the President’s age. Repeat, motor and cognitive functions are normal. Now, here’s a newsflash that’s just reached us. At 2:35 local time President Reagan completed a satisfactory bowel motion.’ The newscaster turned to his copresenter. ‘Barbara, I believe you have similar good news on Nancy?’

‘Thank you, Dan,’ she cut in smoothly. ‘Yes, just one hour later, at 3:35 local time, Nancy completed her very own bowel motion, her second for the day, so it’s all happening in the First Family.’ She glanced at a slip of paper pushed across her desk. ‘The traffic in Pennsylvania Avenue is seizing up again, while F-16s of the 6th Fleet have shot down seven MiG 29s over the Bering Strait. The President’s blood pressure is 100 over 60. The EGG records a slight left-hand tremor…