Pooh Part Two
Where was I?... Oh yes... Previously on camile_sinensis, the kindly and solicitous NHS had written to me to give me advance warning of their designs upon my pooh, and sure enough, on returning home from holiday, there was the jolly little pooh-kit waiting for me, complete with encouraging and informative leaflet on how to get my pooh out of my rectum and into the post.
And yet, despite all this helpful chivvying, I confess that I have failed miserably to provide a sample. This is not because of any undue squeamishness on my part regarding pooh - having given birth to two children and lived with a succession of cats, I am no stranger to excrement in all its interesting forms. Pooh and I are old friends. No, the problem is more of a practical nature...
The Friendly and Helpful Leaflet ("Bowel Screening: Step-by-step instructions"), you see, has this to say:
"It is important that the samples of your bowel motion have not been in the toilet water. Suggestions to catch your sample are: folded pieces of toilet paper, your hand in a small plastic bag, or any clean disposable container."
Leaving aside the unpleasantly body-temperature-suffused image that "... your hand in a small plastic bag..." conjours, this whole scenario relies on a modicum of pre-planning.
In order to arrive in the bog fully equipped to do the nasty with Mr Small Plastic Bag, it would be necessary to know in advance that Mr Pooh is about to make his debut. And - (and here comes the first of Far Too Much Information. You should have quit reading about 5 paragraphs ago if you wanted to avoid this. I mean, really - you've got no-one to blame but yourself if you're still here going "ewwwwgh!") - this is not the way I go about the whole business of defaecation.
I'm not one of those people who has a set routine. Not time-wise ("...whoa, it's thirteen minutes past ten! I'm three minutes late!"), or any other sort of planning-wise. I just sort of wander into the bog, trip over White Cat (who is an enthusiastic spectator of such events), plonk myself down for a pee and a Y Halo There Mr Pooh, Fancy Meeting You Here! if the occasion merits it. Down and up and flushed in under two minutes. Bish bosh, job done.
Now, I don't know if this is my own personal idiosyncrasy or what. What do know, though, is that men seem to put much more planning into the whole event. Whether this is due to the endless male fascination with Taking Charge and Doing Stuff Properly, or whether it's just down to the whole standing up/sitting down dichotomy I don't know, but I do know that just about every male I've ever known can regularly be spotted heading toward the loo with a copy of "War and Peace" under his arm and a determined expression on his face, there to remain for the better part of twenty minutes while the rest of us hop up and down outside. srsly, if you live with a man, make sure you have two loos.
Well, when you're that well organised, fetching Mr Small Plastic Bag along with you is but a natural extension of the whole procedure*, but as for me, I make my way bagless to the bog every time, and it is only as I peer down into the pot and see the end product of my alimentary canal waving cheerfully up at me that I remember that I was supposed to capture it and take it into captivity. And as I pull the flush and send it off on its exciting journey into the world**, I resolve to think about pooh more and come better prepared the next time. But I never do.
* which is why I think Friendly and Helpful Leaflet was written by a man
** Local Town Sewage Works
And yet, despite all this helpful chivvying, I confess that I have failed miserably to provide a sample. This is not because of any undue squeamishness on my part regarding pooh - having given birth to two children and lived with a succession of cats, I am no stranger to excrement in all its interesting forms. Pooh and I are old friends. No, the problem is more of a practical nature...
The Friendly and Helpful Leaflet ("Bowel Screening: Step-by-step instructions"), you see, has this to say:
"It is important that the samples of your bowel motion have not been in the toilet water. Suggestions to catch your sample are: folded pieces of toilet paper, your hand in a small plastic bag, or any clean disposable container."
Leaving aside the unpleasantly body-temperature-suffused image that "... your hand in a small plastic bag..." conjours, this whole scenario relies on a modicum of pre-planning.
In order to arrive in the bog fully equipped to do the nasty with Mr Small Plastic Bag, it would be necessary to know in advance that Mr Pooh is about to make his debut. And - (and here comes the first of Far Too Much Information. You should have quit reading about 5 paragraphs ago if you wanted to avoid this. I mean, really - you've got no-one to blame but yourself if you're still here going "ewwwwgh!") - this is not the way I go about the whole business of defaecation.
I'm not one of those people who has a set routine. Not time-wise ("...whoa, it's thirteen minutes past ten! I'm three minutes late!"), or any other sort of planning-wise. I just sort of wander into the bog, trip over White Cat (who is an enthusiastic spectator of such events), plonk myself down for a pee and a Y Halo There Mr Pooh, Fancy Meeting You Here! if the occasion merits it. Down and up and flushed in under two minutes. Bish bosh, job done.
Now, I don't know if this is my own personal idiosyncrasy or what. What do know, though, is that men seem to put much more planning into the whole event. Whether this is due to the endless male fascination with Taking Charge and Doing Stuff Properly, or whether it's just down to the whole standing up/sitting down dichotomy I don't know, but I do know that just about every male I've ever known can regularly be spotted heading toward the loo with a copy of "War and Peace" under his arm and a determined expression on his face, there to remain for the better part of twenty minutes while the rest of us hop up and down outside. srsly, if you live with a man, make sure you have two loos.
Well, when you're that well organised, fetching Mr Small Plastic Bag along with you is but a natural extension of the whole procedure*, but as for me, I make my way bagless to the bog every time, and it is only as I peer down into the pot and see the end product of my alimentary canal waving cheerfully up at me that I remember that I was supposed to capture it and take it into captivity. And as I pull the flush and send it off on its exciting journey into the world**, I resolve to think about pooh more and come better prepared the next time. But I never do.
* which is why I think Friendly and Helpful Leaflet was written by a man
** Local Town Sewage Works