I WAS very nearly killed by revolving doors this week.

Most I encounter are sluggish and require a Herculean push to set them in motion.

But there is a particular set at work so well-oiled and slick I’m lucky you’re not reading my obituary.

The first time I stepped in I was spun and spat out like a grape pip.

I scooped myself off the welcome mat which was well-named because never has a building been so eager to welcome me.

My mistake this week was using the door when a mighty queue was forming.

The door was already in a high-speed spin.

You didn’t so much go through the door as enter its orbit.

The revolution had reached such a screaming pitch of momentum, I feared someone would be decapitated.

I hung back, making false starts before plucking up the courage to run and jump blindly into the vortex There was a momentary respite when my laptop bag snagged on the door frame.

I thought my computer was a goner, picturing its flimsy plastic body snapped down the middle.

I unwedged my gadgetry and was flung into orbit, experiencing G-force usually reserved for NASA astronauts.

I was on my tenth revolution before I realised what was happening.

Nobody came to my rescue and for the next few hours I simply whizzed by in a blur hoping and praying for it to come to a stop. After a while I adjusted to the never-ending spinning, feeling like I was at the eye of a storm.

Over the next few hours I appealed unsuccessfully for help. Would the spinning never cease?

Members of the media assembled outside. TV vans with satellite dishes and bright lamps took up positions while reporters with clipboards and microphones did live broadcasts. Once or twice they approached, thrusting their microphones at me as I whizzed past.

News bulletins played Tracy Chapman’s Talkin’ ‘Bout A Revolution underneath the voice over.

After two days my predicament was compared to the endurance exploits of David Blaine.

I was branded the ‘Incredible Revolving Man’ in some of the downmarket sections of the media. The more serious publications ran sombre pieces about the implications of my predicament for western society. Was it one of the effects of Brexit? Nigel Farage said some rubbish about it being symbolic of the state of British politics.

Eventually, after four and a half days, the Army brought the mechanism to a halt, using a remote-controlled device.

As the emergency services extricated me, all weak and feeble, I was forced to give a press statement. Like the rescued Chilean miners, I was bruised but safe.

I may have exaggerated things a bit.

But I do feel sick.