Poo in a box July 27, 2007Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Darlings, let me apologise in advance for what, even by my facile, puerile standards, will be my most ludicrously facile and puerile post to date. It’s all gone very toilet-and-genitals around here of late – and the tradition ain’t abating yet – but I promise to write on the essence of being any month now.
My body is broken. To such a point that I’ve even had recourse to the medical profession. The doctor asked politely if I was suffering from stress and even though I like to think I have much the hardest fate in all humanity, I would have been hard pushed to call my maximum-sleep, minimum-work lifestyle stressful. “Mm, nöö,” I answered, unstressedly. She listed other factors likely to have contributed to my body’s breakdown. It was all in the acids, you see. “And what might have got my acids up?” I asked, reclining my chair just to prove how unstressed I was. “Alcohol, nicotine, coffee,” she rattled off, clearly not for the first time. I frowned to pretend I was only faintly acquainted with all of those evils and worried that she didn’t even bother to ask if I partook.
The ear’s currently the guilty organ. Similar grief before, when I ended up being prescribed vaginal cream. So I know it’s not to be taken lightly. Plus it’s been a week of pure social joy. The wonderful, beautiful, kind, modest, engaging, altruistic, thoughtful, divine AND, even more heavenlily, SMOKING Annie was in town with her pal, Emma, who is all those things but DOESN’T BLOG, for god’s sake, though she might be pesterable into it, you never know, so I had to get the ailment sorted so I could hear what they were saying and not have to spend the whole time catching my ear-goo. And, as the social gods were smiling on us, Mike held an utterly brilliant get-together which featured, if my Alzheimer’s allows, all these super-bloggers: Ben Perry, BerlinBites, Bowleserised, John Borland, Peasant Glasses and Zis German Life, plus a whole load of other non-blogging weirdos, so I just needed my faculties.
The doctor gushed an oceanful of warm water into my ears, which, I’m sorry to say, is actually better than sex. Took readings with instruments that would have looked space-age in 1975. Tested me for allergies by holding a substance a foot from my knee and then swinging a divining rod between the two and nodding with satisfaction that I was allergic to everything. Asked if my ears itched. (They do.) Asked how long I’d had this cold. (Oh. You know. A while.) And then asked that tricky question about what time of day the symptoms were worst, which I can never remember, so I always say a resounding yes to whichever she suggests first once she’s bored of my dim-foreigner silence. (Yes, half four in the morning!)
“Well, we’ll do a dipsy-dosy test and then come back in two weeks.” The receptionist seemed to be in charge of the dipsy-dosy test. I followed her around the surgery like a particularly servile dog and then realised I was to be sent on my way with instructions and containers to do the test at home. The instruction sheet had helpfully been crossed at all the bits I can’t ignore. Then she opened a neat little cardboard box with two sealable tupperware test-tubes inside. “Put your poo in here up to this level, then seal it inside the bigger test-tube and then send it off in the box.”
The odd thing is that poo-post is free.