Hand Shandy update
I went to the doc's on Friday, for I needed to fill a specimen jar and cart it up to the hospital in Dorchester. On past experience, buckets, tea-cups and other people's mouths are not looked on too kindly by the staff in the pathology lab for some reason.
"Good morning, Miss," I said in my best, booming voice on reaching the front of the queue for the receptionist's window, "I'd like one of your finest specimen jars, please."
"What kind of specimen is it? Urine?" the dried-up husk of a receptionist asked, all her bodily fluids having been surgically removed years ago.
Faced with this fearsome harridan, honesty, I decided, would be the best policy. For this, with a following wind, would be the closing episode on the single-most unsexy chapter of my life.
"No, sperm. I need it for a sperm sample. Make sure it's a big one."
Honestly, some people have no sense of humour.
Since 11th August 2005, when I let a registered medical practitioner* loose on my gonads in what I presume was a successful vasectomy operation, I have diligently, and rather disturbingly kept count of my manipulations as I have attempted to flush out my system of spermatazoons. In this time, Dorset County Hospital have done their best to lose my samples, mistake them for mayonnaise in the staff canteen or fire them into the heart of the sun, so the process has taken rather longer than it should.
A small prize**, then, for the person who can guess what number hand shandy I'm up to, and I shall be Bruce Forsythe, egging you on with cries of "Higher!" and "Lower!" until one of you sick little puppies gets it right. And before you accuse me of filthy, perverted onanism, I might point out I am working to Doctor's Orders, and I am now being treated for RSI.
*At least I assume he was a doctor. He never showed me his certificates or anything. He could have been a chef, a cleaner, or some random idiot with an unusual hobby
** No prize at all