When I was in my early twenties, I went to see the doctor. I can't recall the exact reason for the visit, but at one point, he decided he needed a urine sample.
"Oh dear," I said, wincing. "I actually just went to the loo right before I came in."
"Not to worry," he replied smoothly. "I only need a tiny drop."
He handed me a small plastic container, gestured to the room, and stepped outside to give me some privacy.
I positioned the bottle and began, pleasantly surprised and relieved that my body was cooperating enough to squeeze out a modest sample. But then, to my great surprise, the flow didn't taper off. In fact, it gathered momentum.
I watched in mounting panic as the fluid reached a quarter full... then half full... then three-quarters full—and I was still going at full throttle.
Oh no, I thought, a wave of sheer desperation hitting me. The bottle isn't big enough! What on earth am I going to do?!
Panic-driven calculations raced through my mind. Stepping out into the packed waiting room mid-stream was obviously out of the question. I scanned the small consultation room with wide, manic eyes. My gaze darted to a potted plant in the corner—could I get away with watering the Ficus? Then I looked at the window—could I somehow crack it open and aim for the flowerbed outside without the passersby noticing?
Just as I was on the absolute brink of making a terrible, life-altering decision, the tide miraculously turned. The flow sputtered and stopped, leaving the urine exactly one inch from the absolute brim.
A moment later, the doctor walked back in. He took one look at the sloshing, overflowing vessel handed to him by the young man who five minutes earlier insisted his tank was completely empty, and stood there in silent, utter astonishment.
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