Monday, August 30, 2010

And now ... the farts are here ... I can feel them ... in my colon

(Sung to the tune of My Way)

I had the first of my proper breath tests today. The first one was to determine Hydrogen Vs Methane as the metric, with Methane pulling out a surprise victory over Table of Elements No 1, against the odds.

Today was the lactose test.

I had to drink a solution - about 250 mls - that was loaded with lactose sugars. About equiv to the lactose in a litre of milk apparently. Given my propensity to become farty and bloated if I even look at a carton of milk I was somewhat worried about the impending pain response, especially as I couldn't take pain killers during the test. I told him that if he came out into the waiting room to find me that I may be in the hall farting into a pot plant. I figured it could use it.

But nothing really happened. In truth I was a bit disheartened. I figured that this meant maybe Lactose was a bit of a symptom fail and that what if it was something else that caused this.

Not to fear said the technician calmly. Apparently with this test the full impact of the lactose sugars in the solution - the unpleasant impact that is - lands about six to eight hours later.

Which is now.


In our merry band of the breath tested we had a new entrant. A I presume mentally unhealthy lady who came in with a near full bottle of water.

'Am I allowed to drink this?' she barked at the tech.

'Er ... just a sip, then no more,' said the tech.

'Is this too much then?' she said, shaking the bottle.

'Yes,' said the tech, clearly confused by her shaking near 600 mls of water.

'No I mean the bit I drank,' she said.

She shook the bottle again.

'Oh,' said the tech. 'That's fine. No more than that.'

'Well I'll throw it out then,' said the lady.

'Er ...' said the tech, whose brief clearly didn't yet come with dealing with left field thinkers. 'You could save it for later.'

The woman shook the bottle some more.

'I'm going to the bathroom,' she said after a moment. 'To throw it out. If you need me. That's where I am.'

'Right,' said the tech.

I almost felt I had to do the call trick where, when a friend is bailed up by a person they don't want to talk to, you call their phone to give them an excuse to break the conversation. Except I didn't have his number. Poor bastard.

I used to perform that saving manuever for mah desk bud A when he was bailed up by Buckwheat - my former bigoted baby with the one eyebrow. In fact sometimes I wouldn't even go to another desk. I'd just do it there and then because the ringing tone, like a presented crucifix, would be enough to drive her hissing away.

I still can't believe she works ten metres from me. I have to have painful small talk with her at the kitchenette.

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