Tuesday, July 17, 2007
My social life really has gone for a burton. Category C prisoners get out more than I do these days. I’d love to go to a gig, but music venues aren’t exactly known for their lavish lavatory facilities. At these sorts of establishments pooing comes quite far down the list of cubicle activities, behind impromptu sex and casual drug use. So they’re just not set up to cater for your average ulcerative colitis sufferer; I need a door that locks, a toilet with a seat, plenty of paper and a guarantee that when I flush, it flushes, with the force of Niagara, preferably. For the life of me I can’t remember the last time I went to the cinema. Going out for a meal is fraught with complications. Even the most innocuous menu can be a minefield. The result is I tend to order what I think is safe to eat, rather than what I’d actually like to eat. Which is just downright frustrating. And as much as my girlfriend insists she doesn’t mind when I dash off to the toilet straight after I’ve eaten, I can’t help thinking the restaurant owners might not exactly share her sympathies. A manic-eyed diner ricocheting off tables at full pelt and disappearing into the gents for ages is probably the kind of thing they could well do without. The last time I saw some of my friends we were celebrating Christmas. My last alcoholic drink was on Saturday 31st March. I had to cancel a weekend trip to Munich. Ulcerative colitis is the ultimate party pooper. But I refuse to roll over and let it rule me. I’m not going to let it decide what I do, where I go or who I see, like some Draconian guardian aunt. Next weekend I am finally going to Munich. I’m going to Munich and I’m going to visit all the sights this fabulous city has to offer. Including a few of its public conveniences, no doubt.