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Balls bearing.

I may have just received my best review.

"Three stars."

How's about that then, ladies? You heard it here first. Nothing abnormal about my internal beanbags. And they're not my words, they're the words of a professional radiologist. Just think how many testicles they've observed in the course of their career, the lucky buggers. And my pair get top marks. Well, when it comes to normality at least. Well done me.

Those are nine words I'd happily see scrawled on the wall of a public toilet referring to me, even though I'd admit to being surprised by the formality. It's not the place you'd expect such a dry tone to be in evidence. Though I suppose it depends on where the toilet is. I'm sure you get a higher class of graffiti than usual in the gents' at Trinity College, for example.

It's worth clarifying I didn't get this write-up out of the blue. Last week, I had an ultrasound after noticing a possible lump. Ever since I convinced my dad to get his thirty-year hernia examined I've tried to practise what I preach and get these things sorted quickly, partly because I know speed is often the key to recovery. And what's a few minutes' embarrassment for some peace of mind? And that's what I got once received today's results, along with a possible quote to put on any future Edinburgh artwork. It may wind up as my epitaph. And they didn't mention my micropenis for once, which is a bonus.
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