Tests

 Told the surgery I needed blood tests and an ultrasound and they booked me in for a clinical review with a GP a week hence. When he rang I was in a noisy pub watching football. “Looks like you need a blood test and an ultrasound!” he bellowed at me, helpfully, while I hovered outside by an overflowing ashtray, away from the cheers and groans. “We’ll get you a blood test first, then if it shows anything nasty you’ll be fast-tracked for a scan!”In fact I got appointments for both the week after, probably because I sound like a sharp-elbowed middle class wanker who’ll cause trouble otherwise.

Blood test today, with a kind beautiful nurse. I warned her I was squeamish - oddly, caning people until they bleed makes me happy rather than faint, I dread to think why - and she distracted me with tales of her son, who’s about to have his tonsils out. Is he nervous? I asked. No, he’s super excited, she said, can’t wait for the pain and nuisance to stop. Wow, life lessons from a 7 year old, way to make me feel a twat. I am nervous of everything. I went swimming after the blood letting, pounding through the water to prove how healthy and fit and energetic I am, see, not cancer, not cancer, it can’t possibly be cancer, look at me go, 64 lengths since you ask, that’s half a mile, and I could have gone on, but I wanted to write this up while it was in my head, and anyway aqua aerobics was starting, and the noise gets on my tits.

I am nervous because my mum went through all this and it felt like the start of the end of her life, endless medical appointments, medication and operations, all causing yet more relentless woes, hernias and adhesions and God knows what else. But, well, probably this is the start of the end of my life too. I am 47, for Christ’s sake. Did I imagine I’d live forever? Is my immortality honestly news? Or even anything to worry about? I already get bored quite easily. Suck the joy from every moment, there’s a profound original thought for you: make more porn, have more sex, visit more places, drink more martinis; do as much damage as possible, so people never fucking forget you were here.

Tomorrow the ultrasound. Mr Todd is coming to that, in macabre parody of the traditional scene. “Oh darling, shall we find out what we’re having? Let’s! Oh look, it’s a tumour, just what we always wanted! Look at his aggressive little talons digging into your flesh! Bless. Let’s call him Brian. I’ll put his name down for chemo this minute.” I need to drink two pints of water an hour beforehand, and then not pee. A diary clash means I’ll also be making porn an hour beforehand, probably draped over a mate’s knee getting a hairbrush spanking. I’ve asked cast and crew to remind me to glug heaps. “What are we making?” asked the cameraman. “Spanking content, or a Perrier commercial?”

Results the week after. Then it will be decided what to do with me.