Sorry about the lack of posts over the last few days. I knew I was going away for a long weekend and had intended writing posts in advance so there wouldn’t be a large gap.
Fate, however, intervened. Planning tends to be hit or miss with me; I’m often very organised. But if I’m not very organised I tend to be very disorganised – there’s rarely a middle way.
All the arrangements were in place for a visit to Norfolk and Suffolk to see family and I had set time aside to write a couple of posts to fill the time while I was away. Then what happened? Let’s just say that it was medical. Embarrassingly medical. Some years ago I said to a friend of mine, after a couple of visits to Male Urology and the insertion of a camera into an orifice definitely not designed for cameras, that it would be nice to visit the doctor and be able to keep my trousers on.
“You’re in your forties,” he said in a resigned voice, “get used to it. That and the fact you’ll never be able to hear the snapping of latex gloves without wincing.”
I didn’t know what he meant at the time, a state of innocence that lasted until my first prostate examination. It’s difficult to discuss without overstepping the boundaries of good taste but let’s just say that whether you believe in Evolution or Intelligent Design, you’d have thought that a small trap door would have been a more elegant solution…
Anyway, I’m not cured but I am at least able to sleep for several hours without my bladder waking me up, and I’m down for another trip to Male Urology. I’m hoping that camera technology will have advanced a little in the field of miniaturization.
Male Urology is comedy gold, I promise you. I am already grinning at the memories. Unfortunately, it isn’t tasteful so it will remain A Story That Cannot Be Told.
In the meantime I will compose a post that actually has something to do with Life of a Care Farm in Nottinghamshire, as the title says.
Watch this space.