Human rocket fuel. Foul tasting white liquid chalk that underplays its power to make this 50+ year old break land speed records from the sofa to the nearest toilet
Every sense is alive with the knowledge that at any moment I will have to respond with a “stink spoed”. It will be a matter of survival over dignity, speed over manners...
As I type this, I am concerned that I am going to remove the porcelain off the toilet bowl and make the neighbourhood dogs start howling.
Why am I in this predicament?
Let me explain.
It started about a month ago when I went to Fiona our GP for my annual check-up, which, I notice, is becoming more and more like taking an ageing car for a service: There is so much more than last year that needs to be looked at and fixed.
So it was the usual: “Say ahhh.” and “Does this hurt when I squeeze?” and the uncomfortable “Please cough.”
But during this appointment the caring, competent and gentle Lady Doctor spent an uncomfortable amount of interest in that part of my ageing anatomy. No, not the bum muscles, but rather the sphincter. The part that tightens in a near accident, or when the Receiver of Revenue audits you.
I must say at this juncture that all middle aged men, regardless of whether they went to the army or not, draw away from the sound of latex gloves being put on, the building anxiety that follows the sound of squirting KY gel, and the naked fear that comes with the instructions: “Now lie of your side, and move your left leg up towards your chest, and relax.” (“I will, but take your finger out first.”)
It wouldn't be so bad if it stopped there. A ride home, a quick dop to steady the nerves, and the feigned care by my snorting wife and disrespectful giggling kids.
But, oh no. Not this time. This time Fiona decided that it was time to bring out the heavy boring machinery. With one piece of paper she authorised the medical profession to go further, and deeper, and longer than any one has ever been...sounds more like a National Geographic documentary about a trip into Siberia than a colonoscopy.
Two weeks later found me at the bum processing factory filling out paperwork that allowed them to do damn near anything while I was under the spell of the anaesthetist.
And this they did. With ease.
I am convinced that my garden hose wouldn't come close to the rota-roota-camera-headed mechanical-snake they shoved up the end of my self-respect and poise – all done with the hope of finding nothing. How ironic is that?
And that is exactly what I was told as I came to. “Everything is fine,” said the nurse as she led me from the recovery room to a lazyboy chair. “Tea or coffee?”
“Oh, by the way,” she said with a backward glance, “you may feel uncomfortable because you were pumped full of air during the procedure, so feel free to fart.”
That was the understatement of the year.
I felt that if I started I would make my way to the ceiling in much the same way as an escaped balloon at a birthday party.
I couldn't! Puleez.
But then the pain....the thought of letting one go. No! The embarrassment. Argh! The discomfort. What would the others in the waiting room think?
Well, I shouldn't have worried. Before long it sounded like the wind instrument section of an orchestra. George on my right held the low notes, while Blonde across the way hit the high notes.
As for me, well I just kept it real.
The tea and bikky wasn't bad either…