Yesterday, I had quite a horrible moment when I thought I had urinated a fish. An actual fish.
Imagine my surprise when i dismounted from the lavatory, glanced across to the bowl as I washed my hands and saw a dead fish lying there floaing at the top of my toilet water.
Needless to say, I was shocked.
In my confusion, I blinked twice in a cartoonish manner similar to Wile E Coyote clocking his own TNT strapped to his foot – just to check I hadn’t stood up too fast and was imagining things.
No, no. It was definitely a fish. I’d just weed out a fish.
I furiously flushed again. Confused. Embarrassed, but mainly just wanting to remove the evidence of the fact that my bladder appeared to be turning in to an aquarium. And not even a very good aquarium.
In the end, I settled for covering its lifeless body with tissue paper, unable to even give it the dignity of a viking burial in such a limited space of water.
I didn’t tell anyone what had happened at first. I kept it to myself out of equal amounts of shame and fear. It was exactly like the time I thought I had contracted Tapeworm, but it just turned out to be a potato skin – only a thousand times worse. Because, at least I eat potatoes, there’s rationale there. But I don’t even like fish, so just how the hell did it get in there? Whole?
Perhaps it was the work of a viscous tide and a cheap swimsuit on the South Eastern coast? I wondered. But, I haven’t been swimming in about 15 years – let alone in the sea.
So it couldn’t be that.
Perhaps I’d eaten a tin of sardines in a late night drunken stupor? And the memory of the act had just presented itself via the cruellest flashback ever; by slipping right out my back passage without me noticing.
Was that even what a sardine looks like?
I mulled over numerous reasons why this might have happened, and why the hell it was happening to me. Googling every possibility (carefully clearing my cache afterwards) and becoming continually frustrated that NHS Direct was of no use whatsoever for the second and only time I’ve turned to them for advice. The only similar printed evidence I could find of this happening before was a news article about a man that had got an eel stuck up his bum.
I’d never felt so alone.
Not as lonely as a man who sticks an eel up his bum – but still, very alone.
It wasn’t until it came to light that some of my nephew’s fish had died that very morning that it all just clicked in to place.
Of course, we have a fish tank – and what had presented itself to me that morning was nothing more than the frivolously discarded vessel of a once loved pet that had been resigned to its watery coffin; the toilet.
It was so obvious. What a waste of time.
Thus is the life of a chronic hypochondriac.
And also that of an idiot.