2002-06-19 - 3:57 p.m.

As you may or may not know, or indeed care enough to let it distract you from your casual social use of class B narcotics, I�ve had this thing in my throat. And like any good recreational smoker worth their disposable lighter, I�ve been periodically worrisome about it. This worry culminated today in the hospital, where I was scanned like a bag of ready-washed salad through an electronic point of sale. Because I have the most amazing friends that I could wish for, I was not in fact, alone, and Lara reinforced her already pretty solid position as aceness personified by coming along to hold my metaphorical hand. We wended our jolly way into the doctor�s scary room, and I lay out as the doctor hooked up the ultrasound and jellied my neck up, just like they do to pregnant women�s stomachs when they produce those pictures where you get to say �Awwwww, I can see the baby�s tiny hands!� if you�re really good at lying. She has a fairly lengthy footle around with her probe (me saying things like �It�s actually a bit lower down� and her replying �I know�, and then under her breath �(how to do my job, you hapless chickenshit cretin)�). I mostly stare at the ceiling and concentrate on being quiet. After a while, I peek across at her � she�s scowling at the screen. I�m thinking, either they�re showing previews of Gwyneth Paltrow�s new flick on there, or there�s oncological badness on the way. I crane my eyes a bit further and look at the screen � at first I�m just glad she hasn�t found a set of four month old triplets in there (�Aww, I can see their tiny hands��) and then I just see black shadows. Scowling and black shadows. I lie back. I�m finished. Oops. Did I just say that out loud? Then I realise it�s the doctor. Oh, SHE�S finished. Now she�s looking nervous and I�m thinking she missed the class at medical school where they do the bit about breaking bad news in a professional manner. �The ultrasound is showing up something and it�s confirmed my suspicions�� (insert sound of me not being able to breath) ��there�s something obstructing one of your saliva glands that needs further investigation and the operation will be performed by a big purple dragon who lives on magic mountain and his best friend is Maurice the talking cat who drinks blue milk from the space cows�� or at least that�s what she could have said for all I know because after the word �glands� all I could hear was an angelic cacophony exclaiming IT�S NOT CANCER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now, blocked saliva glands are no laughing matter, kids. Yeah, RIGHT. I just have to get it checked out in a few months and they�ll see if there�s a stone and if there is, they�ll take it out and the worst case scenario is they remove the gland (then I could douse minor soap nymphettes with pureed PABLO glands � who needs monkeys?!). I�m on the non-critical list, though a major concern is that it may affect my party trick of being able to do that spurt you sometimes do from under your tongue when you yawn AT WILL, though I was never really troubling David Blane with that one in terms of impressiveness, and I doubt I�ll bring it up with the consultant. But anyway. I�m safe. All I have to think about now is lung cancer, brain tumours and chronic heart failure due to lack of a proper diet, so that�s OK. I walked back to my flat � the sun was shining that bit brighter, the traffic fumes were that bit more noxious, and all was well with the world. I feel like doing a million life-affirming things, writing a poem, running through the park, screaming at the top of my voice, throwing dog mess at policemen, overdosing on icecream and�sorry to be frank, but having bouncy, frantic, laughy, euphoric sex. So. You know. Please. Do come on over. And bring your friends.

(A serious thanks to all for your ill-deserved good wishes � normal neuroses will now be resumed).