This morning I went to see Dr Shitt-Too to receive the results of my recent abdominal scan.
And Dr Shitt-Too didn't disappoint. That's right, he had no idea what's wrong with me.
All he could be certain of was:
- I don't have a hernia; and
- I'm not pregnant.
So that's all good.
But then my day got even better.
Back in January I received an invitation to have my first old person's medical check. However, rather than rush into it, I decided to wait until Dr Shit-Too had confirmed his expected (by me) non-diagnosis before going ahead.
As I was about to leave the surgery this morning, I thought I might as well book it in and asked the receptionist if she had a slot.
"Can you be here in 10 minutes?" she asked.
"I'm already here," I replied.
"So you are," the receptionist continued, "see you in 10 minutes."
10 minutes later, I was standing in front of the nurse who, without being too judgemental, clearly seemed better qualified to conduct the examination than the mad receptionist.
And it began well.
My weight to height ratio was - and I quote - "perfect." So too, according to the nurse, was my waistline (which I know is not true, but still).
"Do you smoke?"
"No, never have."
I was on fire (spot the irony).
"No, do you drink alcohol?"
"No, how much alcohol do you drink?"
She asked for a guesstimate. I offered one. Raising an eyebrow over her little glasses, she suggested that I might want to be a bit more honest. I was a bit more honest.
She pumped some figures into her computer, which responded by making a funny noise.
She then took her glasses off and said: "According to NHS guidelines, you are officially classed as a 'hazardous drinker.'" (I hadn't heard that term before, and was certainly not aware that someone of that description lived in our house).
I told her that, as it was the first day of Lent, today would be a good day to be less hazardous. But, as there were two weekends of Six Nations rugby still to go followed immediately by St Patrick's Day, the new me would have to wait until after then.
She raised both eyebrows, before stabbing me with a needle whilst mumbling something about a cholesterol test.
I hope I get her again next time.