Nope-not dead yet.
Only six weeks have passed since the last time I wrote. It has been an eventful six weeks, I can tell you.
I had a colonoscopy and gastroscopy; the surgeon wanted to remove and biopsy some polyps. Really, I think that he just wanted to shove a garden hose in both ends. You haven't really lived until you've had a bloody big hosepipe shoved up and down. First, they take a hose that looks like it's big enough to water their garden. Then they spray your throat-and they cover you so you can't kick them, even though you really want to do so. Down goes the hosepipe, they push it around (maybe they like pain-as long as it's someone else's), find the polyps, and chop. Lovely-when they yank the hosepipe out, you can't talk for two days (which makes some people incredibly happy), and it feels like a brick is stuck in your throat.
Then they take another hosepipe (at least, I hope that it's another hosepipe. The NHS is so broke, maybe they rinse them off and reuse them. Or worse-they don't bother rinsing them off). Then they give you something to relax you. It still hurts like hell, and it takes about a week to feel less dazed and confused-but they shove the thing up the backside and push it up as far as it'll go. Imagine how happy they are to see a polyp-and then chop it out, close the area, and finally pull the hose out.
Now, really-all that pain, even with sedation-I will never understand why on earth anyone would be so crazy-or masochistic-to even entertain the possibility of having anal sex. Seriously, Anal sex??? The bloody garden hose was so painful that I would have started kicking if I could have moved. No way would I ever let anyone get near enough to shove anything up my ass. A scope every three years is enough. Ewww....
That was the excitement (if you call that exciting) of the past few weeks. People are still avoiding wearing masks, the idiot conspiracy theorists are bleating about the governments putting tracking devices in the vaccines, morons are dying-other morons are taking the relaxed (non-existent) cautions as excuses to go and kill each other (and a lot of innocent people, too), and it's back to business as usual. I've finally learned to keep my head down (especially since dog owners don't clean up after their pets. Nothing like having to dodge big-and I do mean, big!- piles of dog shit if you want to walk up the road), avoid looking at anyone in the eye (that's an invitation to have the crap beaten out of you, according to the NHS), and generally keep my mouth shut.
The funniest thing is what I saved for last-mostly because I like to crack a joke every once in awhile. After the past eighteen months, we need all the humor we can get.
I was walking up the road last week, heard my name called, and turned around to see an old neighbor-called Betty-walking toward me. I still keep in touch with some people, but Betty and I has lost touch. We went for a coffee, and caught up. It seems that her husband left her for a younger model (typical of him, he was a prat), so she started shagging his son. His son, to clear things up, is her stepson, so that was probably okay-and it drove her ex to distraction, so it was definitely okay.
Betty had been to her gynecologist a few weeks before the ex dumped her for a thirty year old (same age as his son), and during her examination, the consultant pronounced her problem: she had a senile vagina. Yes, I did say a senile vagina. I couldn't stop laughing-and her remedy for her senile vagina was to have as much sex as she possibly could. Seems to have worked. She was with her stepson for nearly five years.
There you have it, everyone. If you don't have sex for a few years, you will end up with a senile vagina - so the moral is: get shagging.
Now, if I could find someone with his own hair and teeth, and who could speak English, and who is in his 50s- hmmm....
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