2005-12-08 - 5:54 p.m.

In a charming development within the ongoing process of ruling out the terminal illnesses that I might have, I have to deliver to my doctor’s surgery a fresh pot of my freshly-hawked sputum every morning for three days next week, like some kind of snot-wielding milkman, whistling as he trundles up the pathway on his morning rounds. Children will wave as I go by, and I will bid them a cheery halloo, dropping off my wares for the waiting lab technicians…”There you go, boys…I made it myself.”

I do apologise if any of you are eating as you read.

I like that joke: “The doctor said, I need to see samples of your sweat, urine, sperm and faeces…so I just gave him a pair of my underpants.”