Accused Of Having Diarrhoea

 

I exhale, and present four plates of pasta to my housemates. I am at Nexus, and I have a lot to learn. The housemates have set me the challenge of learning to cook pasta. I like pasta, but it’s not been a major thing growing up. So I have no idea what to do. Apparently you just boil it. And throw tinned tomatoes on it.

 

Boom! Dinner.

 

Roo, Danneh, The Unceasingly Stylish Dave Jones and Rahjah politely respond with enthusiasm, and I smile. I am now a chef. I can cook pasta.

 

And only pasta.

 

–

It is a year later, and I have eaten pasta every day for the last year.

 

–

 

It is many years later, and I have gone to an actual uni. With debauchery and everything. I have moved into a house with Violin, Anders Limpar and Jackson Five. They have set me the challenge of eating 4 plates of curry at the all you can eat in town. And this is doable, for I am a huge man. I eat huge food out of huge bowls. And the boys have spent a lot of time laughing at me eating out of a flowerpot. But this is uni. This is where debauchery is encouraged! And I love my pasta.

 

–

 

It is several months later, and I am in a lecture. I am studying healthcare, and the lecturer has just asked us a very personal question.

 

“How many of you here poo once a day?”

 

I laugh. As if. A bunch of people put their hands up.

 

“And how many of you poo twice a day?”

 

Seriously? A smaller bunch of people put their hands up.

 

“And how many of you poo three times a day?”

Nobody puts their hand up. And neither do I.

 

Because I’m waiting for her to get to the higher numbers. Nobody poos only a few times a day.

 

“I notice none of you have put your hand up.”

 

Of course not.

 

“That’s because if you poo three times a day, that’s diarrhoea.”

 

WHAT?

 

–

 

It is several months later, and I am with Beauty on a date. We are going to Bentley Bridge, the city’s most Canadian playground, which is right next to the hospital, so I have arranged an intra-date medical examination. Apparently I’ve been having diarrhoea for years. And apparently there is a camera test now. And apparently I have to see someone at the hospital before that can happen.

 

“Mr Mohr?” asks a burly nurse, beckoning me into a room with a woman who wants to know about me and my poo. Nurses are gross.

 

“So before we can do an endoscopy we need to do a manual check to make sure there’s no obvious problems.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“Is that ok?”

 

I have no idea.

 

“Of course.”

“Will you go into the door to your right for me, please? Get up on the table on your front and whip your pants off for me.”

 

WHAT?

 

Beauty smiles, and whispers something to me.

“This is an odd date, Dan.”

 

I sigh. It’s definitely an odd date. And there’s no way it could possibly get any odder than this. I get up, and follow the doctor into a little room with a table.

 

And I do as she asked.

 

“Now I’m just going to pop my finger into your bottom to check for any abnormalities. This might feel a bit strange.”

 

WHAT?

 

I sigh. And guess this has to happen.

 

The doctor does her job.

 

And I have no idea what to do in this moment.

 

So I react. With awkwardness.

 

The most obvious way.

 

The most normal way.

 

I start laughing.

 

Beauty is in the other room wondering what is going on, as she hears me laughing because a doctor has put a finger in my bottom. She’ll understand though. That’s obviously the normal way to respond to this experience.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had that reaction before” says the doctor.

 

Oh no! That flipping doctor! Taking the mick out of me! She should know better than to mock somebody whose bottom she is up! I have power over her finger! At any moment I could make this very unpleasant for her! I could….

 

OH NO!!!!

 

I DO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

I POO ON THE DOCTOR’S HAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

I gasp, and am mortified!

 

“Doctor, I’m so sorry!”

 

“What for?”

 

What?

 

“Doctor, I just pooed on you!”

 

She laughs. Hypocrite.

 

“No, you didn’t.” she says, suddenly no longer in my bottom.

 

I turn round, and see no poo. And am so confused. Apparently a finger feels like a poo.

 

“No problems there then, Mr Mohr. I’ll book you in for the camera test. You needn’t worry, it sounds like you’ll find it hilarious.”

I blush.

 

–

 

Violin walks into the living room, heralding the arrival of a letter.

 

“Dan, you have a letter from the hospital.”

 

He gives it to me, and I read it. And smile.

 

“Does it say why you’ve been pooing so much?”

 

I look at him, and nod.

 

“Too much pasta.”

 

Violin smiles. And pauses.

“So… pasta for dinner tonight?”

 

“Flipping yeah.”