I never thought the time would come when I would be posting my excrement through a mailbox - but the other day that’s exactly what I did. And I suspect a few of you have done so too…
The reason being (other than fantasising that the person at the receiving end could be Jacob Rees-Mogg) I had a certain milestone birthday earlier this month
and thus a couple of days later received an extra little birthday present from our lovely NHS
– so thoughtful of them! You probably know
where I’m going with this: it was the bowel cancer screening kit in its neat card envelope, a cute little sample
tube, complete with clear, illustrated instructions. (I would quite like to have been commissioned
for that artwork – it’s not every day you’d get to draw a job like that get a job to draw like that.)
Well, I think it’s brilliant that we have the opportunity here
to do these tests for free and at our own convenience so I was quite strangely
excited to have a go. And this post is just
about writing itself with all its double entendre...
Anyway, it does take a little bit of what you might call ‘forward
planning’ but honestly it’s no hardship, and then when it's all done, dated and ready to despatch, you can say you’ve pushed your excrement through a mailbox too, and write a blog post about it.
All of this brings to mind a song I particularly loved when I was 15 and first heard as the B-side of a much treasured and brilliant Buzzcocks single, ‘What Do I Get’… I know it’s not about the actual, erm, ‘substance’ (are there any songs out there that are?!) but as a swear word ‘shit’ is pretty excellent. My poor mum and dad just kept shtum when I insisted on playing it at full volume on the family stereogram. They did the right thing, of course, making a fuss would have just given me cause to rebel against them but instead they accepted it all with good grace. In fact my mum probably secretly liked it; I'm pretty sure that 'shit' (along with 'bugger') was her favourite swear word - she didn't hold back - and it has become one of mine too; it's the perfect response to stepping barefoot on an upturned plug, or when a handle on your Tesco 'Bag For Life' gives way and deposits your Maris Pipers all over the pavement, or if you have to answer the door to the postman wearing a freshly applied exfoliating clay face pack. We've all been there.
The lovely Susie Dent explains more about it here (I thoroughly recommend her videos on all our favourite profanities):
And of course the song.
Apparently, they're bringing the age down on this requirement, so when I last had a health check they were happy to report it'd be coming my way soon.
ReplyDeleteStill, I have a history with this kind of thing...
https://histopten.blogspot.com/2018/06/radio-songs-38-whats-in-box.html
On a serious note I think it's great that we get checked out so easily and for free, so good on them for bringing the age down here too. It's no biggie...(well hopefully not, perhaps I should re-phrase that.) And as a female we're so used to having the most intimate bodily checks for years too, so it's just another one to add to the list...
DeleteI somehow must have missed that post of yours on that package.... aargh. I've had just the same thoughts as you about the logistics in particular! Wonder if the protagonist made a habit of it?
I also went through that process earlier in the year and found it relatively straightforward, certainly compared to trying to get just the right amount of urine into a tiny tub.
ReplyDeleteWe'll all be dab hands at it soon. I particularly liked the little picture inside the box alongside the instruction "not to add extra"... The urine ones can be a bit problematic, though (a cup might be better!)
DeleteIt is 50 up here so happy half century C!
ReplyDeleteI'll take that, CC, thanks! Oh, if only...
DeleteMusically speaking, I guessed where this might be heading (& I wasn't disappointing) but an unexpected and entertaining post to get there, C. Thanks!
ReplyDeleteOh thank you, Khayem - one has to find the humour in these matters! - and I still remember being a little shocked but also thrilled on first hearing the song...
DeleteAnd a very belated happy birthday! I don't believe the number though. Is it too late for a recount?
ReplyDeleteThanks for that too. I can't quite believe it myself, it doesn't feel the way (years ago anyway) I thought it would; I still don't feel like a fully-fledged adult! Guess I never will. But it's ok as it happens, nothing to worry about, plus I'm in good company!
DeleteI've just posted mine. (Can't be much fun opening the mail at their end.)
ReplyDeleteSusie Dent is a real treasure isn't she? Or as some might say, a classy bird!
Good for you - we must be part of an ever-expanding brigade of posters of shit now! Yes, not sure I'd like a job in that particular laboratory. Good luck with the results too, of course.
DeleteI do love Susie Dent, definitely a classy bird as you say! She has been fondly mentioned on these pages before too... https://sundriedsparrows.blogspot.com/2013/03/starling-i-love-you.html
I am about to disclose something that is more embarrassing than dodgy sexual delight obtained from rolled up newspapers or shady financial dealings with crypto....I listen to 'Something Rhymes with Purple' . It is about etymology with Suzy Dent. I know it may be a bit middle aged but not that embarrassing. The bit that is though it is co-hosted by ....Giles Brandreth. There I've said it. My younger version would have committed hari kari at the mear thought of having anything to do with Giles. However now I recognise him to be a really clever man though still extraordinarily annoying.
ReplyDeleteHaha, I was wondering what on earth you were going to say considering this post's subject matter! But that is still quite an admission... However, yes, I know what you mean - having seen GB occasionally on Countdown I can appreciate the etymologist in him at least, and dry sense of humour, if I can find a way to block out everything else that's so annoying as you say (and his unfathomable defence of Boris Johnson). I'll have to check out the podcast, thanks Ben.
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