TMI Corner

I woke up on Monday morning to the rain, and a hangover. There'd been no particular reason I'd gone out on Sunday night, and maybe it was more where we drank than what I'd drank that left me feeling like a pig shat in my head -- but the end result was largely the same. Much like any morning I blearily got up and made myself some breakfast -- then, for some reason, while waiting for the bread to toast, I decided I wouldn't go to work that day. The hangover was bareable, certainly not enough to warrant a day off work. Instead I decided -- just like that, while standing in my tatty dressing gown and making toast -- that I'd go to the place affectionately known as "The Clap Clinic".

Let me be clear from the start; I have not been sleeping around (even if it's often seen as some kind of male rite of passage to do so) and nor did I have reason to think I was in any way infected. However, it had been playing on my mind ever since a few months back San got tested -- and she only went to give her friend moral support. My reasoning for being fairly sure of non-contamination was along the lines of San got a clean bill of health -- although she opted not to have the blood test, since she's terrified of needles. However, I'd had a blood test late last year and while I was never told what my results were, I like to think some effort to contact me would have been made, should the results have been in some way untoward.

On the other hand, I admit that I do not know the sexual history of everyone I have slept with, and have not always given due care and attention to my own well-being. This room for uncertainty was enough to convince me that to officially be declared safe for human consumption was worth any indignity.

I arrived at the clinic in east London a little after the time I would normally be settling into some work, had I made it to the office. I would have got there earlier, but I caught the wrong train at first. I was in a strangely cheery mood -- although I would have been in a better mood if I'd planned the day in advance and had a lie-in -- every now and then it would occur to me what I was doing, and I'd shake my head to myself at the absurdity of the situation. I'm not sure why, but I really don't like hospitals -- maybe it's all the time spent in one in Leicester with a fractured jaw, maybe it's from my extended visit when I was seriously ill, aged about four years old -- a time I like to claim now has given me an abandonment complex. Either way, the idea of just walking away seemed attractive -- but I knew it was something I had to do. The clinic itself could have been anywhere, a small dingy waiting room with a single television mounted on the wall. The television was showing the usual daytime television -- but there seemed something quite fitting about the fuzzy picture, while Jeremy Kyle was hosting a "DNA results special" and calling chavs liars.

I was given a little plastic card on my arrival (now that I think about it, I hope they clean all the cards at the end of the day -- you never know what you might catch from the person before you) and told it would be an hour before anyone saw me. Rather than put out, I was amazed -- I'd been execting a visit of about four hours, just the one seemed incredible. And it was my mistake, that first hour was just until anyone saw you at all -- you'd think they would be able to do all the tests at once, but apparently not.

The details of the day are a little unclear for me now, I spent hours just reading Nick Hornby's 31 Songs and trying to ignore the daytime television, although sometimes I'd have to put my book away and amuse myself wondering about the people around me -- from the chavs, to the smart businessman in a freshly-pressed suit -- and trying to work out what all their stories might be.

When I was called in to see the first nurse and discussed the vague reasons I was there, I was given the opportunity to join in a clinical trial. Luckily it was not for anything that could leave me looking like the elephant man, instead it just involved giving an extra sample. I figured it made no difference to me, and I think there was something about maybe getting seen a little quicker -- unless I'm just making that up. I was given my swab test -- which, contrary to reports I've heard is not like jabbing a lolly stick down a banana. Although the swab did look worryingly like a cocktail stirrer. I gave my samples, then went back to join the rest of the masses in the waiting room.

Hours passed before I was called in to see an entirely different nurse. I discussed with him the vague reasons I was there -- which included an entire lack of any symptoms, apart from an occasional itch on the backs of my hands and arms, and the report from San that she has noticed several times getting a rash from kissing me. The nurse then decided it was all a bit out of his league, and I'd have to see a doctor instead -- back into the waiting room I went again.

Time passes and I'm called to give more samples -- just as well I'd been drinking lots of water, although the first one was still mostly alcohol, I'm willing to bet -- and the nurse casually mentioned having found traces of blood earlier. She assured me repeatedly it was absolutely nothing to worry about, and I did want to point out that perhaps they might have some connection to her use of the cocktail stirrer in a place where I've never thought to put one. I kept quiet, did as I was told, and filled out a short questionnaire about in future if I was given the choice would I prefer the old cocktail stirrer down the japseye, or just giving a piss sample. And could I explain why. And various other questions. For my trouble and the extra sample I was given a £10 WH Smith voucher.

I saw the doctor, whom I found fainly irritating, but he reassured me that any itching I might occasional suffer from was not of a sexually transmitted nature. After quizzing me about my sexual habits and whatever else, he sent me back to wait for my blood test.

Yet another nurse was required for the blood tests. She asked me if I had a problem with needles -- I told her I wasn't a fan of them, but it wasn't going to be an issue for me. I mentioned that I used to be a blood donor, until the whole issue of possibly having been given infected blood and the chance of degenerative brain disease came out and they asked me to stop donating. The nurse told me she'd thought about being a blood donor, but hadn't got around to it. It's a very strange state of affairs to be sat in the clap clinic, giving a blood sample, and trying to convince your nurse of the virtues of being a blood donor. She mentioned the idea of donating bone marrow, too, and I told her I'm signed up to be a donor if I'm ever needed.

Again, I'm the patient and yet I'm the one trying to convince her that it's likely you will only ever have to donate bone marrow once in your lifetime. Apparently you do need a couple of days off work following it, and you'll be feeling pretty run down, but I figure if it's only once then it's a small price to pay. I don't know if I managed to convince her to sign up -- I'd like to see her again to ask her.

My final consultation with the doctor established the protocol of what to do when they got my results -- and I opted for their preferred "no news is good news" option, which means if they don't bother to contact you then there's nothing to report. I'd kind of like to have a certificate declaring my clean bill of health, but I'll settle for just not hearing anything.

And hopefully in the future before I'm about to go to bed with some Filipino model I barely know, I will remember the cocktail stirrer and give it some more thought.