The Truth Will Out

4pm: I’ve been wondering whether I should visit an STD clinic.. We’re forever being given the facts and figures about Chlamydia and all his fun companions, and yet still I managed to get drunk last week and expel my spawn into some possibly germ-ridden, middle-aged half-wit Neanderthal bitch from Hell. And I’ve been regretting it ever since.
I haven’t slept well, but I think that’s from worry, rather than a symptom of gonorrhoea or something. I’ve dialled the number for the GP twice, only to hang up in a fit of fear. I’m very uncertain and unsettled. Is it better to ignore what happened and hope for the best? Or is there a risk that my winky might rot and fall off before I even realise I’m infected? Would it be better to know??? Maybe there’s an anonymous walk-in clinic I can go to somewhere… Preferably on the other side of Europe…

10pm - This evening, when Hannah came home, I shared my worries with her and asked her what she thought I should do. She burst out laughing and said “Stop worrying, you stupid bastard. That slag who wrote her number on your chest was tanked up and doing it to everyone. You no more shagged her than I shagged that fat twat with the toupee who kept grabbing my arse on the dancefloor.” I didn’t know whether to punch her or hug her. But as she was carrying a meal-for-four from the Indian and a bottle of Pinot Noir, I decided to forgive her and try to see the funny side.
Families are scum sometimes aren’t they? If they ain’t playing tricks on you and leaving you to worry for a decade, they’re coming in pissed and mistaking your pillow for a toilet (thanks again, mum..)

RC 13-2-09
2214 GMT