“Getting relief from a persistent health problem will feel miraculous. It will be wonderful to have the energy for your favourite people and relationships. Take this opportunity to create a new schedule. Set aside time for creative pursuits, like reading, listening to music and cooking. Are you unemployed? You will find a wonderful job that allows great flexibility. You’ll welcome the chance to work for a company that is more interested in making its employees happy than making huge profits.”
– Yahoo! Lifestyle Horoscope, today.
No apologies for relying on this tired old trope once more, twice in two days, cos I’m so excited. I can’t believe this is happening to me, here, now, today! Oh, thank you, Russell! Thank you! I have been reading, singing and cooking like a crazy one while looking for a wonderful job with great flexibility for more years than I can number, and now it’s coming true. On a Saturday, too!
Tell us, oh pray tell us, who this exemplary philanthropic industrialist may be, who is concerned only for my happiness and bugger the shareholders? Sir Willy Wonka of Chocolate Factory plc, possibly?
And getting relief from a persistent health problem… well, that will be more miraculous still. I have been trying to persuade various well-paid members of the medical profession to become interested in my humiliating genito-urinary problem for four years, and all I ever get is more blood tests. I rarely get to see the same GP twice, and despite last week’s tests (they always come back negative) I have to wait three weeks to get another appointment with another GP I have not yet met, who will not have read my notes.
They will stare moodily up at the ceiling and down at the floor while I explain in layman’s language how I had to piss in a shop doorway in Knightsbridge when I wasn’t even drunk, and how my formerly flamboyant member – I seriously once considered a career as an escort, being out of work in Wales can do that to you – goes all floppy if ever I do meet a lady, and how I have so little energy for my favourite relationships. They will briskly write another chit for more blood tests, and hand me a little bottle to piss in next time I need to go in the street, and wave me on to the next GP.
Even the bloody internet knows what the problem is, it’s so common that fifty percent of men over sixty will have it, but you will not find a doctor in the land nowadays willing to risk an actual diagnosis and course of treatment for their hundred grand a year. The key to progress in the NHS is not how you are diagnosed, or even that you are treated, God forbid they should fix the problem – but within what period of time were you seen and at whose expense?
But I have promised to be a reformed character and not to be so cynical and grouchy about everything. This late March warm spell is much too glorious to stay indoors and look for work while morosely twiddling with my useless dick.
I think I’ll go and spray the weeds.
Divine punishment is visited on the apostate who dares to criticise the holy NHS. A Dark Angel with a flaming sword has cauterised my urethra in the far reaches of the night. I am straining and groaning to piss a few miserable drips every twenty minutes or so and get little sleep. With the effort, something else messy happens. Turning around, however, it seems I can’t now shit either. I can only produce tears from my eyes, maybe even they will soon be sealed shut.
1.15 pm. Returning from our walk round the industrial estate, Hunzi and I, we arrive at the front door. As I am slowly deciding which of two dissimilarly shaped keys must be the front-door one, a familiar urge comes over me. By the time I have got inside the hallway, before I can get up the stairs, I have pissed myself. And to think I wanted to be a grown-up.
Only two more weeks to go until I get to see a GP I’ve never seen before and have to explain the whole thing to them over again, to mute incomprehension.
Wouldn’t it be great if we had actual doctors, like in Liberia?