King of Excellent (according to Scaryduck)

Thursday, June 26

On the piss

No, this is not a post about being on a pub crawl...

I got a letter late last week. The letter was from my friendly doctor's surgery, and was something along the lines of:
Dear Mr. Aitch,
We have a note from your cardiologist, and he's asked us to contact you with regards to getting a urine sample from you. If you'd be so kind as to pop into the surgery at your earliest convenience, we have a container for you to collect it in.
And so on Monday morning I popped down on the scooter to collect one of those little plastic pot thingies for me to take a jimmy into. I walked into reception, and the lady behind the counter said "Ah yes, Mr Aitch, this must be for you."

"You what?" I asked. "Are you taking the...?"
"Yes, we'd like you to fill it," she informed me.
"What from here?" I said in best Ronnie Barker parlance.

More disturbingly, inside is a liquid I assumed was water from where they previously washed the container. On the side is a label warning me of concentrated hydrochloric acid, used as a preservative. It even warns not to pee directly into the bottle, I'm guessing in case of splashbacks.
So there you have it, I now am unofficially no longer broke. In fact, I am no longer someone without a pot to piss in.

Albeit a 1 gallon pot.

In another medical world
I have been feeling rotten on and off since my excursion to the local NHS Trust hostelry. Yesterday was one of those days, warranting a visit to the quacks (again). He diagnosed Migraine (pronounced my-grain, or mee-grain?) Associated Vertigo, gave me some sea-sickness pills and a simple exercise that involves me really screwing with my balance. The pills seem to be working, but as I sat here the room is swimming again. I also found this website, which outlines most of the symptoms I have been suffering, right down to the lack of memory and the dodgy eyesight.