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I SUPPOSE that I have to admit to beinga bit of a ‘phonophobe’. That
is, I normally feel uneasy when conversing by telephone, presumably because
I can’t see the person I’m talking to. However, on a recent scientific trip
to Melbourne, I realised that the rather anonymous and impersonal feeling
that the telephone engenders can sometimes be a boon.

My fairly down-to-earth tale has its beginnings in my (failed) attempt
to become the first Briton in space. Just two weeks before I was due to
leave Britain on a four-week scientifc trip to Melbourne I learnt that I
had been ‘long-listed’ by the Juno project and, along with 150 others, was
to spend a day in London undergoing medical and psychological testing (see
‘Knocking the stuffing out of the right stuff’, by Jeremy Curtis, Forum,
25 November). Unfortunately, the only possible date for all this was the
day before my departure for Australia. At the time, this did not appear
to pose any major problems.

By the end of the morning of medical examination at BUPA’s headquarters,
culminating in a brisk walk on the dreaded inclined-treadmill, things seemed
to be going fairly well . . . until a nurse handed me a large carrier bag
and spoke the fateful words: ‘This is your stool collection kit.’

A leaflet in the kit explained the diet I had to follow and how to set
about taking the ‘specimens’. Further investigation of the kit revealed
instructions on how to prepare for a ‘faecal occluded blood test’, a supply
of disposable plastic gloves, three small plastic pots and three padded
envelopes with prepaid, first-class-mail labels addressed to a Harley Street
pathology laboratory. The idea was that I should eat a rather odd diet for
three days (no red meat, orange juice, tomatoes or turnips) before taking
the first sample and then, sticking with the diet, take two additional samples
at 24-hour intervals. Each sample was to be posted off on the day of collection,
preferably not on a Friday to avoid ‘spoiling’ in the post over a weekend.

Thus it was that, three days later, jet-lagged after a rather harrowing
and orange juice-less journey, I took a deep breath, picked up the telephone
in my temporary office in Melbourne and dialled the number of an express
delivery company which guaranteed delivery of parcels to Europe within five
working days. ‘Good morning. I’d like to inquire about the possibility of
sending some unusual, er, objects to England.’

‘Sure, what are the objects exactly?’ replied the pleasant sounding
young woman on the other end of the line.

‘Well, stools actually.’

‘No worries. Just make sure that theends of the legs are properly padded.’

I thanked her for her advice, put the receiver down and wiped my brow.
I remember on a maths course many years ago having difficulties with calculus,
but small increments have got nothing on small excrements.

Time for a second attempt. None ofthis British beating about the bush
thistime. What was called for was some Aussieplain-speak. Express delivery
company number 2: ‘Hello, I’d like to inquire about the possibility of sending
some pathological specimens to England. In fact, if the truth must be told,
I have to send three pommie turds back to London.’

‘If I had my way, I’d send them all back, mate!’ came the helpful reply.
However, further conversation revealed that the company would not handle
such offensive material under any circumstances.

The third company I telephoned informed me that not only would they
not handle this type of material but that, in their view, it was illegal
to import and export faecal material. (And even if this was not the case,
what do you put on the little green label? ‘Free samples. No commercial
value’?) Surely my only chance of realising my childhood dream wasn’t goingto
be flushed away by such a mundaneproblem. Perhaps the whole exercise wasa
further psychological hurdle set by theJuno people to test my resilience
in the faceof adversity.

There was only one thing for it: I would have to take professional advice.
My next telephone call was to a Melbourne pathology laboratory, where an
extremely helpful gentleman listened to my story without laughing once and
agreed that finding a firm willing to make intercontinental express faeces
deliveries was likely to be an insurmountable problem. However, he managed
to provide a solution. His laboratory was prepared to carry out the analysis
for me and fax the results direct to London. A quick telephone call to BUPA
revealed that they would not turn their noses up at the Antipodean version
of the faecal occluded blood analysis.

A few days and a large amount of vegetable fibre later I was on a crowded
Melbourne tram, surreptitiously sniffing my briefcase and fervently hoping
that no clue to its contents was escaping into the steamy atmosphere of
the tram. It was a load off my mind when, a few minutes later, I handed
over my three padded envelopes to a friendly pathology technician. Not only
would the lab perform the analysis but, because of the difficulty of arranging
payment (it normally carries out analyses only for hospitals and GPs), it
would not charge me for its services. (If anyone at Melbourne Pathological
Services is reading this, a heartfelt thanks.) When my wife phoned a week
or so later she had some good news and some bad news. The good news was
that the results of the Melbourne analysis were negative and had arrived
in London in time. The bad news was that my lifelong ambition was to remain
permanently unfulfilled (though I was eligible to buy a Juno sweatshirt).

For many people of my generation, news of space missions evokes wistful
images of Dan Dare fighting the Mekon, or Captain James T. Kirk boldly going
where no one has gone before (if you’ll pardon the expression). For me,
news of astronauts in orbit will always conjure up a vision of an Australian
dunny, a pair of disposable gloves and three little plastic pots.

*Steve Donnelly is a failed astronaut who lectures in the Department
of Electronics and Electrical Engineering at the University of Salford.