I had an appointment with the doctor today. I go to the Bush Doctors. It's nice to have a practice of five doctors dedicated to one area of the body (and such a great part), but I guess they have realised there isn't enough work for them all so they've had to diversify - they were happy to see me about an issue with my back! Do you see what I did there? I am not sure it's entirely clear. I was implying that rather than being doctors who practised in Shepherd's Bush, they were in fact doctors who only dealt with "bush", being a slang term for a lady's pubic hair. Though I do like the idea of them being that specific. If a woman came in and said "I think there is something wrong with my vagina," then they would say, "Sorry, we only specialise in medical problems concerning female pubic hair, you will have to go elsewhere." Or if a woman had a problem with a hair on her upper leg - "Sorry, technically that is a leg hair, not a pubic hair - we can not help you." Or if a man had a problem with his pubic hair, "No way, Jose, bush is a term used only for the female pubic area, you will have to go somewhere else".
Despite my childishness you'd think that the practice might have realised that there was a cheap double entendre here and chosen a safer name. Unless they deliberately did it for the joke, which doesn't seem appropriate. Is it something about the West London area? It's
The Hand Job Centre all over again. Though car washing is a thing for levity, not medicine.
Anyway, although I am feeling very healthy at the moment, thanks to all the exercise, fruit and smoked salmon (this incidentally is my diet snack tip. Salmon is low in calories, very good for you and a few slices is no more expensive than a muffin - though I do feel a bit like some profligate Lord when I tuck into four slices in mid-afternoon. And it doesn't go as well with coffee. And is harder to eat in public. And smells) I have been eating.
I had finally found the time to get a hard spot on my back looked at. I noticed it back in January, but I have put off getting it seen to, partly because I have been too busy and partly because I didn't want to find out if it was something horrible. Even though I know this is ridiculous logic and that by waiting nine months a treatable problem could have turned into something fatal. But I am a man and though constantly conscious of my own mortality, I secretly believe that I will live forever and that nothing can harm me.
But it's been a slight niggling fear over the last few months (especially when I was reading "A Spot of Bother on holiday) and I really am an idiot for not getting it looked at earlier. I was fairly sure it was just a cyst, but for most of this year there has been the slight worry that death has been creeping up behind me.
The doctor was a friendly and cheerful chap. I considered riffing on my Bush Doctors idea to him, but nerves got the better of me and I think he may have heard it before.
Anyway, it was all over very quickly. I had my shirt off almost before the small talk had ended and he seemed immediately to recognise what he was dealing with and said so in a tone of voice that I would imagine he doesn't use for cancer. He had a feel and confirmed it was merely a cyst and said I could have it removed if I wished, but it wasn't necessary if it wasn't causing me any problems. I considered whether I wanted to put anyone to the trouble of operating on anything so insignificant, but decided against it for now. I didn't want to inconvenience anyone. It wasn't because I was scared of going under the knife. Genuinely. I had a smelly cyst taken off a few years ago, but this one doesn't smell and is no trouble and in a way, now I know it isn't trying to kill me it seems a bit rude to then kill it. In a way I love my cyst - we are always together and it isn't in my face the whole time, letting me get on with whatever I want to do. I am very attached to my cyst and at least it isn't a machine. It's made out of flesh (some kind of corrupted flesh, but no-one's perfect). Admittedly it's my own flesh so there's something a bit Narcissistic about it, but it's a move in the right direction - away from technology and towards something living and human.
I was in and out of the office pretty quickly and my step had notably lightened and my mood had brightened. Although I was nearly certain I was fine, there had been that scintilla of doubt that I might be about to get bad news. But now I felt alive and healthy and it felt good. Doubtless one day prevarication will kill me, but for the moment I live to fight another day. Even if my fighting skills are not all that they could be.
I popped into the BP garage to buy something from M&S for my dinner. As I got in the queue to pay I realised I was standing behind Rik Mayall. When I was growing up he was my absolute comedy God and Kevin Turvey and the Young Ones were two of the creations that made me want to be a comedian. I have never met him before, though I did ask him to be in one of my Edinburgh plays and the news came back that he was flattered to be asked but couldn't do it.
The comedy Gods have sent me salvation twice when I have been blue in the forms of
Billy Connolly and
Daniel Kitson, and I wondered what they had in mind now. I felt happy and yet here was a comedy hero in front of me. Had they sent him out anticipating bad news from the doctor, but now found out he was surplus to requirements?
I was a bit excited to be in his presence and wondered if I should introduce myself and tell him what an influence he had been on me. But he was there to buy petrol and I didn't want to bother him and nerves got the better of me. I regretted it afterwards, fantasising that he might have been delighted to see me and then asked if I wanted to come up to the BBC with him in his car to be in a new series of the Young Ones that he was working on. But I guess that that might be unlikely. It was cool just to be in his presence and it's sometimes a mistake to meet your heroes. Though he seemed in good spirits and was laughing with the check-out girls. Maybe I should have said hello. He would probably have liked to be told how important he had been in my life. Or maybe scared.
As always my reticence to engage with life makes me an inefficient blogger. Sorry.
