A box in the fridge leaves Mrs C caught between two stools

What's in that little container?

- Steve Canavan

' said Mrs Canavan, as she peered into the fridge while preparing tea the other night.This was a tricky question to deal with because I had a feeling she wouldn't take the answer well.

The truth was, you see, that in the container I'd placed in the vegetable rack, between the carrots and the broccoli, was my excrement.

Clearly a bit of context is required here - because I don't want you to think I'm the kind of guy who regularly puts his poo in the fridge - many years' experience have taught me the toilet is a much better place for it - so let me fill you in.

I'd been to the docs because lately I've lost a bit of weight and generally felt a bit rotten. I thought the doc would simply give me some tablets and a few days later I'd be running 10ks and jet skiing across vast lakes.

But instead she - the doc - embarked on the equivalent of what they do to a knackered car during an MoT test and did a thorough examination of nearly all my bits.

After weighing me and taking my blood pressure, she invited me to lie on a couch where she prodded my stomach in random manner, as if playing xylophone in a school assembly.

"All seems to be ok," she muttered. "But given what you've told me..." she added in the kind of solemn voice the priest adopted at my grandmother's funeral, "...I'd like to do a prostate check'

Now I didn't know exactly what this was, but I could tell from the tone of her voice it wasn't good.