Linda Kennedy: A jarring sample of my Acute Commentator's Syndrome

WHEN people talk of embarrassing experiences at the doctor's surgery, they don't usually mean at the reception desk. But I have Acute Commentator's Syndrome. The humiliating stuff happens up front.

The condition that led me to the surgery was a grotty infection. To diagnose it, the doctor requested a sample of liquid. A test-tube was given, directions to the ladies supplied, but the etiquette of giving was left up to me.

There was one yard between the consulting room and the loo, but my luck is such I that encountered a bloke. "Don't worry, hen" he advised. "Sing to relax. 'Urine the money' works for me." I clenched my teeth and there was probably a knock-on effect.

The test tube was, frankly, bijou. Its diameter was an inch. Doc, are you kidding, I thought. You'd need to be a crack shot. Does the female body even permit control over aim? It doesn't. Well, mine doesn't. I overshot. Dab hand is not what I was. It was what I had to do, though.

What was the angle of the spray? Power shower? Or drizzle? I craned downwards. To my mutter of "there's a geyser down there!" no-one answered: "shouldn't be, this is the ladies".

Back to the rapids. The new plan was: cradle test tube hopefully beneath deluge. Then move with it. Follow the Orinoco flow. Oh God. Enya. The man was right. Still, it worked. Emission accomplished.

Despite all this, the embarrassing bit was the prescription. There are some people, like me, who believe one should be gangrenous, if not croupy and consumptive, before a visit to the doctor is required. Hence, it's been years (that croup outbreak of 1992, eh?) since I went, let alone had a prescription.

I may opine about prescription charges, but I don't know much about their practicalities. In fact, nothing. So, when the doctor handed me a note, my NHS suddenly stopped being about C difficile and became v difficile. How did one turn this note into antibiotics? Was there a kiosk downstairs? Or a website – PainRelief.Com – where I would punch in a code? Ought I text THANK GOD to this number and pills would arrive? The doc, cleverly wearing Latex gloves as he labelled my sample, told me kindly there was a pharmacy nearby.

I then queued at the reception desk, assuming a form issued by an institution such as NHS would require to be stamped, at the very least in triplicate. Children behind sniggered, already savvy to the NHS ways. No stamp required, the receptionist said, amplifying the juvenile laughter.

I feel better now, thank you, but my face is still red. One of the symptoms of Acute Commentator Syndrome, I hear.

Andy's raw power source

SCENES at Wimbledon earlier this week confirmed Britain has finally warmed to something previously considered a bit of a cold fish. Something hitherto regarded with suspicion, and no little disdain, the spawn of an old enemy, and not quite to their taste. Yes, Andy Murray eating sushi after his victory was the sign that Britain has at long last accepted this Japanese snack.

Within moments of finishing his heroic match against Frenchman Richard Gasquet, Murray was tucking in, and such high-level endorsement of futomaki, salmon nigiri, seaweed and ginger follows closely last week's news that Butlins is to open the first sushi bar in one of its holiday camps. It's not just good news for sushi. Murray might soon add Yo! Sushi to his roster of sponsors, if he can prove those biceps came from lifting tuna sashimi.

• The Scottish Government is leaving the UK behind, at least online. Internet regulators are allowing new suffixes to be created, so it's bye bye .co.uk and hello, a Scottish ending for websites. The brave new Scottish address on the URL bar will end in .sco. Yes, S-C-O. Doesn't spelling that out sound like the second half of Ottawan's old chart-topping classic, D-I-S-C-O? Were the Scottish Government geniuses D-elirious when they thought of it? Surely a far better option is .scot. Pronounced dot scot. Burns would have loved it. It's poetry, and not just to a mouse.