Poo sticks

Part of the joy of turning 50 is the little reminders that you're in the foothills of decrepitude. The letter from the NHS inviting you to shit on a stick and send it to them. Of course I'm sceptical of the effectiveness of these things. It's their (I'm sure intentionally) misleading use of statistics and their deeply patronising and childlike use of language. They really do refer to your shit as "bowel motions (poos)" not just once (in case you might not be able to work out what a bowel motion is) but every single time (as though you might not be able to hold that scrap of information in).

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Ewan's just been down with a bleeding mouth and a molar. It "came out". Apparently it was hurting so he pulled it out. All is well but he looked aghast when I told him to chuck it in the bin. I meant the bloody tissue: he thought I meant the tooth. Then he says he doesn't mind if the tooth fairy comes tomorrow (I think he fears that Mandy's out and I'd leave nothing) but I had to point out to him that the tooth fairy comes on the day. Oh. So I mused on the worth of a molar. I wonder if they are worth more? He must be tired: it's not a molar, it's a pre-molar he smart-asses back. And then it dawns. No! It's a molar! They're worth £5! Unfortunately, I have to point out that it's not a negotiation. The tooth fairy will know what kind of tooth it is and its value. Oh.