‘So, can I just confirm that neither you nor any of your neighbours are on the phone?’

‘That's correct’ I replied.

‘OK then, but if something does go wrong during your wife's operation, if there's a life or death situation, then we’ll send a policeman round’, the nurse said, rather unreassuringly.

This was the late 1980s. A time when the media were obsessed with Princess Diana's latest outfit and mobile phones were as rare as a hot summer's day in Manchester.

My wife Helen had been rushed into hospital with appendicitis. There was a concern that her appendix might burst, something the medical staff assured me was not particularly pleasant and could be dangerous. As next of kin, I was the person they would need to contact if something went wrong.

They had no reason to believe it would – however, covering all their bases and addressing the issue of how to contact me when I wasn't on the phone (we were living in a small rented flat at the time), a policeman would be sent round to me.

I left Helen as she was being taken to the operating theatre, squeezing her hand and reassuring her I wouldn't steal any of her chocolate whilst she was under the anaesthetic.

It was late. I was tired, and I crashed out immediately on my return to our flat.

I slept peacefully.

Until 3 a.m., when I woke to the sound of a doorbell ringing. I turned to Helen.

She wasn't there.

My mind quickly kicked into gear. Of course, I was alone. I'd left Helen at the hospital.

The doorbell rang again.

Who on earth was wanting to see me at 3 o’clock in the morning?

Then I remembered:

‘If there's a life or death situation, we’ll send a policeman round.’

I leapt out of bed and grabbed a dressing gown to cover my modesty and my Bradford City boxer shorts.

My mind went into overdrive.

It was a simple operation.

She was in good hands.

We'd only been married just over a year (as if that made any difference).

I convinced myself it was probably just some drunk passing by trying to cause a disturbance.

But the doorbell then rang a third time. If it was a drunk they were certainly persistent.

I moved quickly towards the door – and under my breath I muttered to myself, ‘Please don't be a policeman.’

I opened the door.

A policeman stood before me.

‘I'm looking for a Mr McGee.’

‘You've found him’, I replied.

‘Mr McGee, I've got some bad news. Do you mind if I come in?’

I was stunned. For a moment I just stared at him, unable to say or do anything.

Finally, I said ‘You'd better come in.’

I walked hesitantly back towards our small lounge – my mind continuing to process the events unfolding before me.

My wife was dead? Really?

The policeman followed and as I sat down I broke my silence.

‘It's about Helen, isn't it?’

‘Who?’ asked the slightly bemused officer.

‘Helen, my wife. They said at the hospital …’

‘Sir,’ interrupted the policeman, ‘I'm not sure what you're on about. But do you own a Peugeot 104?’

‘Er … yes’, I replied with a face that did little to hide my confusion.

‘Well, I'm sorry sir but I've some bad news. It's been stolen and left abandoned around ten miles away from here. I'm afraid to say it's been trashed. It would seem someone's stood on the bonnet and kicked in your front windscreen. It's a real mess.’

‘Really?’ I replied with a face that had moved from one of confusion to borderline ecstasy.

The policeman looked completely bemused.

‘Sir, did you know your car had been stolen? Because your response does seem rather unusual.’

So, I got off his lap.

It was time to bring him up to speed.

‘Sorry officer, I thought you'd come to tell me my wife was dead. But actually you're just here to tell me my car's been stolen.’

The above is a story from nearly 30 years ago. It's a reminder that it's important to get perspective. And I would like to be able to say the lessons learnt have stayed with me ever since.

Sadly, they haven't always.

To be fair, our biology doesn't help us.

Our primitive emotional brain has evolved to act first, think later. It's instinctive, reactive, and impulsive.

It's difficult for the rational part of our brain to get a look-in sometimes.

That's why today I still stress at times over stupid things.

I can, like most of us, get caught up in the minutiae of life and lose sight of what's really important.

But I'm getting better.

I'm taking control of my thoughts, my internal dialogue.

Of course, not everything is trivial, but I'm now more aware of the impact of the primitive emotional part of my brain and I'm learning to engage my rational brain more often.

How do I do that?

One way is to ask myself a simple question.

‘Where is this issue on a scale of 1–10? (Where 10 = death).’

I use that question regularly and here's what I've realized.

You know what? The state of my daughter's bedroom is no longer a nine.

My reaction to the person who I let into the traffic while driving – and who didn't thank me – is not an eight.

Here's the deal: to live a happier life, it's crucial we get a sense of perspective and avoid overreacting to situations. That's easy to say, but it's becoming increasingly hard to do. Why? The pace at which many of us now seem to live our lives.

The buzz we get from living this way will ultimately be our downfall.

We’ll overreact, make stupid decisions, and damage relationships.

Above all, we’ll be harming ourselves.

So, we need to take control, step back, and get perspective.

Psychologists call it ‘cognitive reappraisal’. I like the term ‘frame it to tame it’.

As a result, I'm learning to see problems for what they are. They're rarely, if ever, life or death situations. They're a pain, they're frustrating, and I wish they wouldn't happen – but they're not life threatening.

Two of my closest friends in the speaking business are no longer with us. Clive and Kenny both passed away in their early fifties. When I'm defrosting my windscreen on a bitterly cold, dark January morning after a night's stay in a Premier Inn on an industrial estate near Dudley, I think about them. I often think ‘You know what Paul, Clive and Kenny would love to swap places with you now.’

It helps me get perspective.

Yes, life will throw up some high scores sometimes. And none of us will escape the occasional ten. But life isn't filled entirely with high scores.

So, calm down and put things into perspective.

By the way, the car got repaired, Helen's operation was a success, but the policeman was still confused.

Oh, and I didn't steal Helen's chocolate – it would have been a ten if I had.