It has occurred to me, working in Local Shop despite being an experienced microbiologist specialising in intestinal disease and therefore an undercover Doctor, that I might well refer to myself as Dr. Poo. I wonder if I can get a series out of that? There were farting monsters in at least one Dr. Who story – the Slitheen – so there’s a link there already. I could be the Chyme Lord who cured their intestinal malfunction and rendered them undetectable.
My nemesis would not be the Master, but the Flush. Daleks would be shaped like Portaloos and go around shouting ‘E-vacuate! E-vacuate!’. At least they’d finally have a valid reason for the plungers. They’d make energy from what they sucked out of you – as Rose pointed out, that’s already perfectly possible.
Well maybe I’ll dream about it and come up with something more convincing than a moon putting on weight. Have to have an early night ahyway, I have work tomorrow (I found a ‘back support’ in Poundland that is basically a big piece of elastic secured by Velcro and which can stop ribs moving around too much) and there is still the danger of jury service on Monday. If I had any stories involving courtrooms I’d be looking forward to it, but I don’t, so I’m not.
Tonight’s Octobeer contribution is a South African Cabernet Sauvignon, better than last night’s because there’s no vinegar in it. This one is rich and deep, with hints of blackberry, dead weasel and turpentine. I’m not really designed for the appreciation of cheap wine, I suspect. However, I have to stay off whisky when I have to get up in the morning and work while concentrating on not moving my left side too fast or too far. This time it’s healing up faster – but then this time I had two weeks of rest rather than going straight back to work.
Soon the dark cloud of jury service will pass until five years hence, when I will no doubt be ‘randomly selected’ once again. It won’t matter then because I’ll be on the pension.
Tomorrow night I have to phone The Number which will tell me whether I have to go to the court or stay in bed on Monday morning.
Well, time for bed, as Zebedee always said to the children, the mad cow, the doped-up rabbit and the dog with no legs. Funny, nobody seems to be investigating him, do they?