Possibly Slightly Australian

A single moment can change your life. A sideways glance at a pretty girl who smiles back, and you end living with her for five years; before she sets fire to your house and runs away with a yoga instructor called Tarquin. Or discovering you probably have cancer.

The under-resourced but resolutely magnificent NHS tests my blood every year.

They also need my weight; but as I prefer to be weighed naked; and as this was apparently not acceptable in a clinical environment; I do it at home, knock a kilo off the total, and report it to the surgery.

When I lived in Thailand I had to pay for this service (the blood testing, not the naked weighing), which cost  around £5 and included something called a PSA test. I didn’t know (and still don’t) what PSA stood for (Possibly Slightly Australian?), but I knew I needed it  because it provided  an early indication of prostate cancer.

So when we came back to the UK I rocked up for my blood test and asked if it included a PSA. “Not unless you have symptoms, then you need to see a doctor to authorise it.” Shame.

Every year I asked, and every year they said “no”; until this year when they said “of course” and the next day I opened the NHS app to be told my PSA was 10.5.

The NHS rates this score to be “significantly raised”. I rated it as “I’m likely fucked”, followed by “I hope Tarquin’s score is even higher”. Time to see a doctor.