On going to bed in early October, I noticed a bit of blood in my urine. It was rather hard to miss. The color of pinot noir, I think, rather than claret, it filled the bowl. Too much information. I quite agree.

My new wife was distressed, as most civilians would be. After replumbing the works with a catheter, bloodless flow has been reestablished (despite a few white-knuckle hours where the clots obstructed things). Hemoglobin dropped alarmingly before the Red Niagara was halted. The urologists are going for a look-see, biopsy, and/or reconstruction of the works this Friday, the 17th.

The most likely diagnosis is bladder cancer. For those of you playing at home, that makes the count 2 cancers/zero cured. Personally, I think it's due to all the rays I collected trying to hold laryngeal tubes in place while X-rays were bouncing about. No way to know.

Regardless, I covert your prayers for myself and my stalwart, loving and caring wife, Ross.

The enigmatic title? Bear with me. Cockneys have a rhyming language. “My china” means “my mate” as in: mate=>china plate=> china, “Lady from Bristol”=>pistol, blood=claret=> “boiled beef and carrots.” One can only hope some sharp mustard is to be had.