Vol 13 scan
I don’t know if I’m alone in this, coming to the mistake/s in a min, but I quite delight in pervishly peering at the interior of my body on a mini TV screen. I don’t know what I expect to find in there. Having said that, I once had a breast scan subsequently enduring a three day panic attack at the memory of my too small sparrow-like heart surely nowhere near big enough to do the job since, if you know me, I’m around, loosely around, ten stone.
Anyway, one winter I needed a bowel scan, the kind where you have to progressively starve yourself for two weeks beforehand starting with denying yourself sweetcorn, which, though it never bothered you before, becomes an instant craving, culminating with you swallowing chalky white liquid which, though swelling your belly to the size of a ufo, you are urged to clench within until, when it’s all over, you can drink hot chocolate finally to speed its release.
During the ensuing two week period, while attending Skills for Life training at a charming hotel, queuing for the ubiquitous buffet, I happened to mention, and also unfortunately the reason for it, that I’m on consommé only and found myself alone for the afternoon.
The scan itself proceeded normally albeit as a rising panic began to form as it became increasingly difficult to hang on to the white liquid and, before my consultant could finish his sentence, I wildly snatched the self-help sheet from him and legged it for the pub.
I barely noticed the bling adorned revellers within as I knocked back my chocolate before tearing, bug-eyed past the tinsel, to the bogs.
Free at last in the thankfully empty but equally echoey lavatory, I sat back, smiled and relaxed for a full five minutes, finally joyously releasing big, booming bucketbombs of air.