I got wet again the other evening; this time soaked from the ground up, which struck me as odd. Anne, Victoria and I were in a bar ((no kidding!) in Portsmouth. We’d taken a few days off as I had no medical appointments last week, so headed down to the deep south.
We’d been touristing (?) all day and deserved a reward. A couple of pints of ‘craft beer’ later meant I needed to go and point Percy at the porcelain. Job done and I was washing my hands when I heard a sharp hissing sound. There was no-one else in the toilet and it wasn’t coming from me, so what was it? As I carried on washing it wasn’t only my hands that were getting wet; I could feel wetness spreading up my trouser leg. Again, I knew it wasn’t me (yes, I’m sure), so I looked under the basin and saw a stream of water jetting from one of the pipes. I jumped backwards into what was already a large puddle on the floor and checked my trousers. Every male toilet-goer’s nightmare; a large wet-patch all down my leg. I couldn’t leave with this embarrassing stain on my trousers but couldn’t stay and drown. I made a bolt for it into the bar and explained the flooding in the toilet to an amused waitress who gave me a handful of paper napkins while staring fixedly at my trousers. Even trying to dry myself with the napkins looked suggestive as I re-joined Anne and Victoria. “Drink up, it’s time to leave. Yes, I know about my trousers. No, now. I’ll tell you about it on the way back.” We left with the noise of a very loud alarm ringing in our ears.
A few days before the great Portsmouth flood, we’d trooped into my oncologist’s office at the local hospital for my regular consultation. It was nice enough to see him again but a bit of a waste of time as the results of my MRI scan hadn’t yet come through. It must be the summer holidays as it’s been two weeks since my scan and he explained that I was the third patient that day not to receive their results. He told me my PSA score wouldn’t change much more with this chemo but as long as it stayed relatively level then we’d stick with it. To be honest, I was rather distracted by the fact that the colour of his trousers matched his chair, so it looked like his legs disappeared when he sat down. Little things.