Got out of hospital two days ago, sans catheter at last, which was a great relief, both physiologically and psychologically. Passed by the pharmacie to buy all the stuff to prevent flooding, and then went to the urologist's surgery. The aptly named consultant, doctor Py (pronounced "pee" in French), greeted us in the waiting room with a jovial and none-too-discreet "How's things on the pissing front?", then realised the waiting room was full of worried patients at an earlier stage than us, frightened to death at the prospect of incontinence.
To spare them further disquiet, he made us jump the queue, and in private gave me a short lecture on how to pee, and, equally importantly, how not to. Not easy, so far, to put into practice.
Effectively, with the catheter in place for over a month, my body had completely forgotten how to run the taps.
Apparently it will take quite a while before I become potty trained. In the meantime, splendidly be-nappied like our grandchildren, I am enjoying lots of reading, with Murakami's Kafka on the Shore the current page turner.
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