Apparently now I'm 'special'

SPECIAL CONDITIONS
• Premium increased on Life Cover due to ulcerative colitis.

That’s what it said on page 2 of the letter I received yesterday detailing my Mortgage Protection Plan. Premium increased on Life Cover due to ulcerative colitis. Marvelous. Fan-bloody-tastic. Really, I’m tickled pink. Cock-a-hoop, I am. No I’m not. I’m in shock; pass the salts. They’ve only gone and hoicked the monthly premium up by about 50%. I’m not that much of a risk, surely? Am I really that ill? They obviously want to get their money’s worth before I pop my clogs. They want to take their pound of flesh before I take my last breath. And considering they only pay out on the event of my death, I’m no more keen for them to cough up than they are. So we’ve both got a common interest; neither of us wants to see me pushing up the daisies just yet. I’m 35 for chrissakes. In my prime. I’m not planning on checking out for a while yet. Okay, so I’ve got a bit of tummy trouble, but come on, I’m hardly ready to meet my maker, and here Friends Provident are sending me letters that make me feel like this. Friends Provident: harrumph, they’re no friends of mine.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 2.0

Like the going at Newmarket, things are good to firm.

Wednesday 29th November:
6.15am Loose stool, slight blood mucus
1.30pm Loose to firmish stool
9.35pm Loose stool


Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
5 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
I'm off for a Tom Tit.

I have a dream

I had lofty ambitions for this blog. My objective was to shine a light on ulcerative colitis, to illuminate this most idiosyncratic of diseases, to delve into the minutiae of life as a sufferer, to tap-tap away at the inconsistencies, anomalies and misconceptions, mining only the truth, with diligence and pure, unblinkered 20/20 vision and searing honesty, without censorship or shame, uncovering the realities, the cold diamond-hard facts, and to deliver them neatly packaged for the reader in a wrapping paper of candidness and tied with a ribbon of wit. Well, that was the plan, but now I find myself posting this.

The nightmare before Christmas

“Belong to you does he?” asks the security guard. “Bit hard to say from this angle,” replies Amanda Eyre, head of human resources at law firm Hull, Lewsey and Pearce, “but I imagine he is an employee, yes.” The two of them are standing in the Great Hall of the Natural History Museum peering up at the body of a man curled up asleep inside the ribcage of the diplodocus skeleton. The company has hired out the museum for their Christmas party at great expense. And now it seems, great embarrassment. With a murmur the mystery sleeper shifts, dislodging the festive gold paper hat from his head, which falls to the floor like an autumnal leaf. The dinosaur creaks. “Well he can’t stay there, luv. It’s a good job the diplodocus isn’t alive to see this, that’s all I can say.” Amanda Eyre gives the security guard a sideways look. “Vegetarian weren’t they.” offers the security guard by way of explanation.

Oh yes, the office Christmas party season is upon us. Ho-ho-ho. Or rather, hic-hic-hic. Festive Rudolf ties will be worn around heads, mistletoe will be hung from trouser flies and countless middle management types will tipsily stumble into mid-life crisis with an inappropriate grope. Company credit cards will splash out on rivers of alcohol; let it flow, let it flow, let flow. Karaoke will be sung, tables will double as dance floors and testosterone pumped team leaders will get all competitive over who can moonwalk the best. Lager-loosened lips will say something they shouldn’t to someone they really, really shouldn’t. Predatory alpha males doused in aftershave will slip off their wedding rings. Mince pies will be thrown and there will be projectile vomiting. Ah, the joys of yuletide. Well, this year will be a bit different for me. I won’t be, how can I put it, ‘going for it’ with quite the same gusto as in previous years. Thanks to the ulcerative colitis I’m going to have to get into the Christmas spirit without the spirits. And I don’t think I mind all that much. Though it will be an odd experience to observe the post-Christmas party casualties jabbering and dribbling on the Tube, and for once not be one of them. Yup, December is shaping up to be a sober, hangover free one for me. Now that probably is something worth celebrating.

Queen Victoria's thrones

The ornate gates are now rust-flecked and chastened by a tightly wound knot of cold chain, denying public access to the public lavatory below. Like frozen Slinkys, discarded beer cans litter the steps which descend to a stubbornly padlocked door. It’s a common sight on the streets of London these days. These once magisterial, Victorian conveniences are no longer convenient. Shut. Locked. Permanently engaged. In the last 10 years around 5,000 public toilets in England and Wales have been closed down. Which is a rather buttock-clenching statistic if you happen to have ulcerative colitis. The last thing you need when your bowels want to open is to find the toilets closed. But if you happen to be in leafy, deer-loving Richmond in south-west London and you urgently need a poo, you could be in luck. All you have to do is look out for Community Toilet Scheme stickers in the windows of cafes, pubs and shops. Any business displaying the sticker will allow non-customers to use their toilets for free and with no obligation to buy anything. It’s all part of a new initiative backed by the imaginatively named British Toilet Association (BTA). Businesses that sign up to it will be paid £600 a year, which comes out of the budget formerly spent on maintaining public toilets. Which is a pretty penny for just letting someone spend a penny on your premises. I think the Community Toilet Scheme is an admirable idea, but I’m just not sure if it actually came to it and I desperately needed a loo I’d have the necessary chutzpah to burst into a florists, point at the sticker in the window with a nod and wink and march out the back for a ten minute, noisy crap. No, I think I’d find that a tad awkward. Being terribly English and all that, I’d have to buy the florist a bunch of flowers to make up for the intrusion.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 1.9

Stress isn't good for ulcerative colitis, therefore watching England play football isn't good for ulcerative colitis. The results from yesterday, then.

Wednesday 21st November:
5.35am Loose stool, slight blood mucus
1.30pm Loose to firmish stool
6.50pm Loose to firmish stool
10.40pm Loose stool, blood mucus

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
5 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
I blame McClaren.

Turn your loo into a library

When you spend as much time sitting on the toilet as I do, you will read anything to relieve the boredom. And I do mean anything. Shampoo labels, money off coupons on packs of toilet rolls, the washing instructions in your underpants, whatever you can clap your eyes on. On occasion I have even tried to decipher the cracks in the paintwork. Fortunately The Observer newspaper has come to the rescue of bog dwellers everywhere. Each month they have been giving away a little book of facts on various topics. So far I’ve collected The Observer Book of Scandal, The Observer Book of Money, The Observer Book of Rock and Pop and The Observer Book of Space. And what a sight for bored eyes they are. They’re perfect for reading on the toilet. Well designed, nicely proportioned, not too heavy and cram-packed with fascinating bite-sized nuggets of information. It’s trivia heaven, pub quiz gold dust. These tiny tomes will educate whilst you defecate. And for those who don’t read none too good, in the bottom right hand corner there’s always a flip-book style animation. Look out for them, every bathroom should have a set.

A nightmare start to Tuesday: Update

8.48am receive text message from my girlfriend:

Hello. I dreamt about you this morning.x

8.49am send text message to my girlfriend:

Ha ha. Funny you should mention dreams. Read my blog.x

At 8.59am I call my girlfriend, and contradicting everything I said earlier, there's a question I'm itching to ask, “So what did you dream about me?”

“I’m not telling you. You don’t like hearing about other people’s dreams.”

“I know, I know, but I’m asking.”

"No, you're not interested."

"Please tell me."

“Oh, it was nothing, you weren’t very well and you had to have an operation on your penis.”

This is exactly what I mean; dreams are just brain poo. Complete and utter brain poo. And she's not even on prednisolone.

A nightmare start to Tuesday

The time is 5.29am. I awoke from a bad dream about an hour ago and haven’t been able to get back to sleep since. Like that last olive you chase around the plate with a cocktail stick, never quite able to spear, sleep evades me, teasingly just beyond reach. And as I lay in the dark playing cat and mouse with sleep, listening to the sounds outside my window, probably of real cats and mice, it occurred to me that since I’ve been back on the prednisolone my dreams have been a lot more vivid. Now, if there’s one sentence in the world guaranteed to make my heart sink it’s, “I had this really weird dream last night.” Having to listen to other people’s dreams is my worst nightmare. I’m not even particularly interested in my own dreams, so the idea of having to grimace my way through the nonsensical nocturnal brain ramblings of George from accounts who ate too much Red Leicester before bedtime fills me with utter dread. So you had no body hair whatsoever, not even eyebrows, and you were being chased by Simon Antrobus who you haven’t seen since you were 11 when he went to live in Sheffield, but it was more like Simon Antrobus in medieval bear form. I. Don’t. Care. It’s muddledy-up claptrap. It doesn’t mean anything to George from accounts, why oh why oh why should it mean anything to me? Tell me, do you still speak to the ex-wife, George? Has she forgiven you yet for losing the family home because you got addicted to online poker? That’s more fun, that I am interested in. You can tell me about that, George, I’ll pull up a chair, George, cup of tea George? No it’s fair to say, I’m not a big dream fan. Dreams are just brain poo; the stuff your mind doesn’t need. It would therefore be most hypocritical of me to bore you with the potent whimsy and dazzling theatrics of my recent dreams. All I will say is I do seem to be dreaming more. And I wonder if that has anything to do with the 25mg or so of prednisolone I have whooshing through my bloodstream every day? Whatever, I'm not going to lose any sleep over it.

Guess who?

Today I came up with a new game to pass the time whilst crapping in public toilets. I know I’m supposed to be learning German, but I don’t always have the books with me. So anyway, it’s called ‘Guess who’s in the next cubicle’. This was my guess from a visit to the toilets near Great Portland Street tube:

Edek is Polish.

Edek has a job working for the council cleaning graffiti off the walls in public conveniences.

He has a girlfriend called Betsy who paints fingernails in a nail salon.

Betsy has very long nails with shooting stars painted on them.

Edek wishes he could scrub away the shooting stars just like he scrubs away the toilet graffiti.

He and Betsy aren’t getting on.

Today Edek isn’t in the toilet cubicle scrubbing graffitii.

Today is Edek’s day off and he is waiting in the toilet cubicle to meet a man.

Yesterday Edek was removing graffiti when he saw a message scrawled on the wall by someone calling himself Johnny.

The message simply read ‘All I ask of you is please don’t fall in love with me.’ And there was a number to call and the name Johnny.

Edek didn’t call the number straight away but he did store it in his phone.

Edek was intrigued to know who this Johnny was and why he was so confident of someone instantly falling in love with him that he had to pre-warn them not to.

Edek called the number later that night, mainly because Betsy’s fingernails were annoying him.

Edek and Johnny arranged to meet the following day at 2 o’clock.

Edek had thought Johnny had a very nice voice.

The kind of voice he could easily imagine falling in love with.

That was my guess. I could be way wide of the mark, of course. The person in the next cubicle might just have been having a poo, like me.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 1.8

Now we're talking, solidish stools, shits with shapes. All hail the power of the pred.

Wednesday 14th November:
6am Loose stool
4.20pm Firmish stool
9.30pm Firmish stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
6 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
Best WDOAT in weeks. Fact.

Kinky

Ray Davies of The Kinks wrote Waterloo Sunset about a childhood recollection of lying in his sickbed in St Thomas’s Hospital in London watching the comings and goings of rush hour commuters through the window. If Ray had been propped up in a hospital bed in St Thomas’s this week there’s a chance he might have been inspired to write another song by something he observed out the window; three little test tubes of my blood arriving. I don’t know whether they got there by courier, carrier pigeon or horse drawn carriage, all I know is three test tubes of my blood have been sent to St Thomas’s for tests. I think that’s worth penning a song about, don’t you? Sod all that Terry meets Julie schmaltz though; let’s get a bit of blood in there. Go a bit Marilyn Manson with it. That’s what the record buying public want. They don’t want pretty little vignettes about some bloke called Terry and his bird Julie. They’re baying for blood these days. And it may as well be my blood we give them. In the medium of song, of course. So I’ve had a bash at some new words to go with the tune to Waterloo Sunset. I kept Ray’s first two lines in, because they set it up quite nicely. (He’s not too shabby when it comes to lyrics, actually.) Anyway, see what you think. Ladies and gentleman, probably the world’s first song inspired by an ulcerative colitis sufferer’s blood arriving at hospital…

Waterloo Bloodfest

Dirty old river, must you keep rolling,
Flowing into the night,
Look at these test tubes, makes me feel dizzy,
All that blood gives me a fright,
But I think I’ll be okay,
As long as I don’t go and drop them,
Everything’s cushty.

Smooth

According to my girlfriend my skin glows when I’m on the prednisolone. I’m guessing this is a good thing. I presume she doesn’t mean I glow in the same way as someone with a Chernobyl postcode might. No, I think she means my face is silky smooth and blemish-free like a newborn babe’s. Still manly, of course, very rugged in fact, like chiselled granite, an Easter Island statue sort of thing. But softer. More lustrous. And I suppose if caught in a certain light my skin might give one the impression that I own and regularly use moisturiser. A good moisturiser at that. With a French name probably. Expensive. None of that cheap muck that you get in a sachet stuck inside FHM. I mean, now I’m thinking about it my skin is very good right now. It does look healthy. Which is slightly ironic given the fact it’s all entirely due to chemicals and has nothing to do with clean living at all. It’s the pred that makes my skin pretty. It also stops me shitting seven times a day. And whilst I really don’t like the idea of being drug dependent, I’d much rather pop a few pills than have to keep popping to the toilet. I am reducing my dose by 5mg every two weeks, and hopefully this time at the end of it all I’ll come off the prednisolone for good. Until then though, I’m going to enjoy my lovely glowing skin and all the compliments it brings.

And the good news is

My doctor is wearing his surgical gear. He looks like a Guantanamo Bay inmate who got given blue instead of orange. I’ve never seen him in anything other than his usual uniform of khaki trousers, plain shirt and sober tie. It’s a bit of a shock. He looks a lot younger in his loose fitting clown pyjama get-up. As he greets me we share an awkward moment and he smiles as if to say, yeah I know I look daft. I can’t look him in the eyes. No good looking at the floor either, he’s wearing plastic sandals. This is not a good look. My doctor is not coming across like a man who saves lives for a living; more like someone who makes balloon animals at children’s parties. He directs me through a door, “We’ll go in here. It’s the room we break the bad news in.” Whoa, back up Coco, whaddaya mean the room we break the bad news in? My mind revs into action. “Take a seat, Martin.” This is it, this exactly how it happens on TV. I take in my surroundings. There’s the box of Kleenex on the coffee table. Oh God. I mentally brace myself for the worst. Next to the Kleenex is a plastic model of the intestines, to help explain things probably. I know the drill; I’ve seen Casualty. In the middle of the coffee table is the ubiquitous bunch of flowers. Come on, balloon bender, give it to me straight. Don’t pull any punches. The pictures on the walls are all generic pinks and lilacs. Tell me! Tell me! Tell me! My doctor smiles beatifically and I snap to my senses at once. There is no bad news. How could there be? I haven’t had any tests done recently. I’m not waiting for the results of anything. The ‘bad news’ room just happened to be convenient. I’m only here to pick up a new prescription and talk about swapping to different tablets. I sink back into my chair, no longer condemned. I’m lucky; I got to see the ‘bad news’ room without getting the ‘bad news’. It’s not a nice place. I know they’ve tried to make it look homely and peaceful and unscary, but for me the décor is just a bit too, well, 1989. That’s just my feelings though. Maybe psychologists somewhere have proven that 1989 is a particularly good antidote to terrible news?

The ideal Xmas gift for the ulcerative colitis sufferer in your life

This is a bin for the bathroom, which holds your magazine for you whilst you read on the toilet. Which means you’re hands-free. So you can forget the whole archaic rigmarole of putting the magazine down on the floor for the wiping stage. Oh no my friends, this little chrome beauty means you can read and wipe at the same time. Read and wipe. At the same time. This is 21st Century living. I bet The Jetsons didn’t even have a bin like this. If there’s a bathroom bin, anywhere in the world, better suited to the needs of someone with ulcerative colitis, I want to see it. There won’t be one. This is it. This is the bin we’ve been waiting for. Bathroom waste disposal/reading aids don’t get more exciting than this. Speaking of bathroom bins with dual use, have you ever noticed how girls’ bathroom bins would make perfect nests? With all those fluffy cotton wool ball things, soft make up removing pads, scrunched up tissues and loose hair from the hairbrush, I reckon they’d be an ideal place for an Arctic Tern to snuggle up in.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 1.7

Ta-da! Back on the prednisolone.

Wednesday 7th November:
6am Loose stool, blood
7.45am Loose stool, blood mucus
1.50pm Loose stool
3.50pm Loose stool
7pm Loose stool, light blood
8.40pm Blood mucus

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
6 x Prednisolone 5mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
Going to the toilet more, not as tired, joints don't ache as much.

In loving memory

When she laughs she tilts her head back, reminding me of a photograph of one of Jack the Ripper’s victims I saw in a book once. It’s six thirty on a Saturday morning and I’m watching Liz, the landlady of The Old Crown pour me a whiskey, no ice; that melted hours ago, like a polar bear’s worst nightmare. I’m thinking that for a single woman living on her own, Liz’s dressing gown and nightie are not what you’d expect. There’s nothing practical or comfortable about them. She's still buying clothes with a second party in mind, the game old bird. It’s all a bit Carry On Up The Old Crown. Me perched there like Sid James Junior. Liz puts my drink in front of me and seats herself opposite. I start talking. I use a catch phrase from a new comedy on telly. Liz’s face hardens briefly. She doesn’t get the reference and winds a stray thread from the hem of the curtains round her finger and yanks it off. Doesn’t have the time to watch a lot of telly she says. She did have a TV in the bar for a time, but the old boys only used to argue about what channel they wanted on. It’s a public house not a television room in an old folks home she told them. Liz’s laugh ended life as a sigh. I start telling her about my brother Warren. She must have seen me about with him, I tell her. Big lad. I get onto how when our mum died it knocked Warren for six. The both of us really, but especially Warren. Mum really looked after him. Warren needed looking after. But when she died he withdrew into himself, I was left to organise everything. Warren didn’t speak for a week after the funeral. I tried talking to him, but in the end I left him to it, figured he’d work it all out in his own time. Which he did, to his credit. He came bounding up to me in The Wheatsheaf, big grin on his face, saying he’s had an idea and wants to apologise for being a useless so-and-so. Never swears, Warren. Good like that. He’s tripping over his words, about how he went for a walk in the park, because mum always loved it there. That’s where he got his idea. He’d noticed that all the benches had little brass plaques on them in memory of people. You know, like ‘In Loving Memory of Mary Hedger, who spent many a happy hour in this park.’ Warren wants to get one made up for mum, which is a terrific idea because mum really did love that park and all the flowers. So, I buy Warren a Pepsi and tell him that I’ll leave it all up to him. He can choose the words, the lot. The big lump’s made up, he wants to do it so bad he doesn’t even finish his drink. I’m telling Liz all this and she’s nodding her head, squinting her eyes now and then, in that kind of sympathetic way some people have. Then, I say to her, you’ll never guess what, a week later Warren comes and finds me again. This time I’m in The Coach & Horses. Warren’s eyes are all red and his top lip is all snotty. I sit him down and tell him to take his time. He dutifully ignores me and blurts out this story about how he’d been up the park to take a look at mum’s plaque. He liked to go up there and read it. He was that pleased with himself. He’d done something for mum and he was proud as punch. But this time when he got up the park mum’s plaque had gone. It wasn’t on the bench any more. Someone had only gone and unscrewed it and stuck it onto a nearby litter bin. It broke Warren’s heart, and I wasn’t best pleased either. Who’d do that? Why? No respect some people. I finish my pint and we head up the park to see if we can’t sort this mess out. Warren takes me to the litter bin and sure enough there’s mum’s plaque firmly fixed to it. They’d done a nice job I had to admit. Next Warren leads me over to mum’s bench and things start to become a bit clearer. There are four vacant screw holes where mum’s plaque had been, but next to those four holes is another, older plaque for someone else. Warren had only bloody gone and fixed mum’s plaque to someone else’s bench. The dipstick hadn’t realised you had to have your own bench. You can’t just go and stick your plaque on someone else’s and hope they don’t mind hotching up, I told him. My guess is the family of the old dear had been passing their mum’s bench only to discover she’d got company. A lodger. Our mum. And they must have been the ones who stuck mum’s plaque on the bin. I couldn’t laugh because Warren was upset by it all. I took him into a nice little pub I know nearby and had a bit of a chat with him. Told him that maybe mum’s spirit had been up the park and moved the plaque to the litter bin. He quite took to that idea because mum had always been tidy. Never one to drop litter. She always had a handbag full of sweet wrappers did mum. Cheered Warren up no end as it goes and he soon lost himself in a bag of peanuts. Now, every year if you go up the park on the 5th April you’ll see a big, lanky lad placing a bouquet of flowers carefully and respectfully into a litter bin. And that is my brother, Warren. Liz smiles and I drain my glass. I launch into another story. The words keep tumbling out, whilst behind my eyes, deep in the back of my mind there’s a little voice fighting to be heard above the torrent of half truths and lies…what sort of person opens their pub up at six in the morning for someone they barely know? Who wakes up the landlady of a pub at six in the morning for a drink? And since when did I have a brother called Warren?

I do miss pubs and the people that populate them. This story is dedicated to a certain breed of man common to the great British boozer. He may not tell you the truth, but he will tell you a tale or two.

Drum rolls and toilet rolls

I do really want to learn German. I do. But there’s something niggling away at me. I kind of wish I’d decided to learn drums on the toilet instead. It would’ve been perfect. You can do it sitting down for a start. The din of my paradiddles would also conveniently drown out the sound of my pooing. And Keith Moon has always been a hero of mine. Not only am I in awe of his insane drumming, but his life, like mine seemed somehow welded to all things lavatorial. Legend has it Moon liked to drop cherry bombs into hotel toilets. I too drop things of a destructive nature into toilets. The cover of his only solo album Two Sides of the Moon features Keith ‘mooning’ out of a car window. Just as I have in my time had to show my backside to a fair few folk. The similarities between us are uncanny. Okay, I’m just procrastinating. I know it's much easier to take a German textbook into the toilet than a full drum kit. It’s just German seems so hard. And Keith Moon makes drumming seem so effortless and fun. Maybe what I need is a German Keith Moon to inspire me?

Putting faeces to names

I wonder if Paul Whiteman missed out on any Halloween parties because he thought he’d find it difficult without having a drink? Did Sophie Atkins decide against going to the fireworks display because there wouldn’t be any toilets nearby? Is David Offland sick and tired of being too exhausted after work to help his kids with their homework? Does Gill Palmieri use the public toilets down the road from her office because she thinks her colleagues will hear her if she uses the ones at work? Is Mike Wellum worried that his new girlfriend thinks he’s got a coke habit because he’s always nipping off to the toilet and is gone for ages? Is Beth Breton scared she’ll lose her husband because she finds sex a bit too uncomfortable? Does Joe Higman find it less embarrassing to just not go back into the lecture that he had to leave halfway through to go to the toilet? In the back of her mind is Angela Fenn afraid the baby she is carrying will grow up to have ulcerative colitis like her? For the first time in 18 months did Colin Howlett see blood in the toilet today? The Ulcerative Colitis UK petition now has 196 signatures. The names I used above were ‘borrowed’ from the list. 196 probably isn’t nearly enough to make a difference yet, but it is the biggest group of people affected by UC I’ve ever seen gathered in one place. Seeing all those names like that made me think a bit. Between them every British accent will be covered. There’ll be Brummies, Scousers, Geordies, Welsh, Glaswegians, Cockneys and maybe even someone from Nuneaton. Every faction of our ever-resilient class system will be fully represented. I did note there were one or two double-barrelled names adding an air of grandeur to the list (evening, m’am.) There will be florists, roofers, accountants, IT people, call centre workers, shopkeepers, plumbers, drivers, sales people and managing directors, but probably no Punch and Judy professors. Different people from different walks of life. You can be a cabbie from Tooting or a member of the Royal Family ulcerative colitis doesn’t appear to be choosey. Names on a list. People with lives. People like you and me.

Wednesday's diary on a Thursday 1.6

You know what, I've been thinking. I should just call this The Groundhog Day Diaries.

Wednesday 31st October:
6.35am Loose stool, blood mucus
11.25am Loose stool
1pm Loose stool
4.30pm Loose stool
9.10pm Loose stool

Medication:
6 x Mesalazine 400mg
3 x Ferrous Sulphate 200mg
2 x Calcium Carb 1.25g

Comments:
Phil! Phil Connors! I thought that was you!