Just a small sample of life for the over fifties

I sent my stool sample off to Dundee this week. It’s something one gets asked to do every two years once you’re over the age of fifty. It’s an important and much-needed service, yet I’ve always felt sorry for the people who have to check my faeces for a living. It’s bad enough living in Dundee in the first place.

I should perhaps explain for the benefit of younger readers, who have yet to invited to this biennial party. To screen for possible signs of bowel cancer, you have to collect a small amount of excrement (preferably your own) on a plastic stick which you then post back to the NHS.

Anyway, I was late getting my sample in the post. I should have sent it off last month, but forgot to do so before I went on holiday. When I got home, there was a reminder letter from the Scottish Bowel Screening Centre.

We are all familiar with returning from our hols to find a pile of final demands on the doormat, for gas or electricity or whatever. This is the first time I’ve ever had a final demand for my poo.

I have a mental picture of someone sitting behind a desk twiddling their thumbs, thinking “When’s that guy going to send us his sample? He’s three weeks’ overdue now. I’m sending him a letter”.

Before things got any messier, I thought I ought to comply and get my jobby-on-a-stick kit in the post as soon as possible. So I did the needful, stuck it in the pre-paid envelope and dropped it into the nearest letterbox. That was on Tuesday, so I’m reckoning Royal Mail should have successfully delivered it to Dundee by now.

I certainly hope so, because I’m not sure I can deal with the consequences if they fail. To be honest, I was fearful of what the next step could have been. I didn’t want to be issued with a bailiff’s letter or a court order, let alone some debt collector banging on my front door demanding that I hand over my turds.

Or worse still, what if they threatened to cut off my supply? If that were to happen, I don’t know how I would write this column.