It was time to call my doctor. This being Belgium, my place of residence, I made appropriate weird sounds in my crummy French describing how a visitor had developed the habit of showing up unexpectedly every couple of days in my toilet bowl to say hi. Once seated in my doctor’s office, I explained how these bits were thin and white, but how I felt fine, otherwise. My doctor sported a nice little trimmed goatee, and as I finished my story he chuckled into it. Little contented muffled sounds. I waited, patient, but brittle.
“Monsieur,” he finally said, “ce n’est pas grave. Je pense que vous avez un ver solitaire.”