Aquest article no estā traduīt al catalā; es mostra la seva versiķ en anglčs
On stool samples.
CATALONIA TODAY SECTION: LONG-TERM RESIDENT - ARTICLE SIXTY-SEVEN
Not long ago, I went to my local Centre d'Atenciķ Primāria with a badly upset stomach. The doctor told me the first thing she needed was an analysis of several 'mostres de femta' - literally, 'showings of dung', the Catalan medical term for what English so politely calls stools - and handed me three plastic containers.
Already, I'm probably sharing far more with you than you wish to know, so I won't go into the details of how I managed to get the samples into the pots. Suffice to say that I found back issues of my usual newspaper, the AVUI, indispensable. When the appointed day of collection came, I went back to the C.A.P., plumped a dark plastic bag holding my samples in front of one of the administrative nurses and discreetly hissed: 'Tres mostres de femta'. 'Com?' she snapped. I raised my voice to a stage whisper: 'Tres mostres de femta!' A nearby group of patients turned to look. The nurse tutted. My dung, she loudly informed me (and them) had missed the collection time and was no longer usable. Blushing cherry-red, I mumbled a request for replacement pots, which she duly plonked down on the counter. I gathered them up, together with my little cargo of redundant crap, and left the building, watched with commiseration by what was now a small audience.
It wasn't until I got home that the humiliation of having my own faeces rejected in public hit me like a chunk of aircraft waste. Bodily functions are like that: they can so often make mincemeat of your ego. Which is surely why mine decided to run away altogether for one very long and wobbly day. As the American saying so rightly - and tritely - says: shit happens.