I go to hospital, with my arse problem.

I have an appointment to see Norfolk’s premier arse specialist. It has been arranged for several months – do not worry, it has not suddenly flared up again.

I park at the hospital car park and pay my £2. It is better that the hospital raises money like this rather than taxing people, as I was able to make my own choice whether to drive or use one of the myriad public transport options available from the village.

As I walk in I feel fine, but the hospital is currently hosting an epidemic of Mysterious Vomiting Disease, which is a bit alarming. I rub my hands in the special disinfectant gels provided and sit and wait my turn. People keep getting up and leaving the waiting area, but I can’t work out whether they are being seen by the doctor or running out to vomit and then dying in horrible circumstances, like on The Andromeda Strain.

I casually keep my hand over my mouth.

The waiting area is full of broken legs and things, as the arse chap also does other bits of the body. Everybody seems to be a pensioner instead of me. My name is called, and they look in curiosity at the person who isn’t called ‘Albert’, ‘Doris’ or ‘Wilfred’.

“Now you see – your condition can normally go one of three ways,” explains the specialist. “It can either get better all by itself.” (This sounds encouraging). “Or you can find that it gets worse by itself.” (Less so).

“Or else it can just stay the same.”

I thank God for his medical expertise.

After explaining that I’ve been feeling fine for the past few months, I lie face down for him to give me a healthy prod. Discomforting, but not painful. And he officially pronounces me cured.

I am joyful, and leave with a spring in my step.

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