Little Golden Chalice

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After being snowed under over Christmas with the man flu, I popped in to a local doctor’s surgery to see if I could get a prescription for some industrial strength decongestants to help me fly down to Melbourne. I hate being blocked up when flying, in more ways than one.

After waiting in a room, creatively named the “Waiting Room” (they must have been up all night thinking up that one), I was finally ushered in to see the resident GP. She turned out to be in her mid-thirties, and was particularly attractive.

She went through the usual background history stuff, and I explained my situation.

She said she’d need to do some routine checks prior to writing any prescription. She was pretty thorough, checking my ears, tonsils, glands. Apart from some minor irritation, everything appeared fine.

But just to be sure, she requested that I do a “mid-flow” urine test, and she handed me a paper bag with a small, plastic container inside, about the size of a shot glass.

“Wait, wait wait. Mid-flow? Into this? Are you fucking serious?! That’s like trying to fill a thimble with a fire hose!” I thought, but politely refrained from saying.

She then points me down the hall to a toilet cubicle to complete my challenge.

The first thing I noticed upon entering, was that there wasn’t a single flat surface in there.

Gaz’s tip for doctor’s surgeries – if you are going to send patients somewhere to provide a urine sample – at least put a fucking shelf in there!

The only vaguely flat surface was on top of the stainless steel toilet paper dispenser. It was a precarious perch to say the least, as it had a pitch of about 15 degrees. It became apparent that this was the place of choice, as evidenced by the numerous “urine rings”, a passing legacy of samplers past. They should get some tiny coasters made up.

Anyway, I managed to release, clench, release, dip, and quickly filled my little cup to the brim (without getting too much on my hands, floor, or ceiling). I popped the lid on, dropped it in the paper baggy, made my way back to the doctor’s office and sheepishly handed it to her.

I think Billy Connolly summed it up best. “There is nothing worse, than handing a jar of piss, to an attractive woman. And it’s still warm…”.

She took the bag, simulated weighing it in her hand, raised her eyebrows and gave a fake smile and nod like she was impressed. I watched as she gloved up and removed the lid from my amber-filled vial. She then extracted precisely two drops, placing them in some sort of microscope contraption, and threw the rest away in a medical waste receptacle.

Only two drops?! They should fucking tell you they only require a “sample”!

Oh wait, they did.

Anyway, she peered down the periscope of the microscope, and after a few seconds, popped her head up and said “All good downstairs, Mr Edwards”.

“Well, I’ve never had any complaints, Doc.”

In fact, I said no such thing, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of another way to end this story…