A burning sensation.

"I have a burning sensation when I take a leak."

I let the words hang there. I wasn't going to touch that statement if my life depended on it. I chose to discover the wonderful world of the Google Keyboard and Google Messenger. I was fascinated by how intuitive the Google Keyboard is and how snazzy the graphics on Google Messenger are. I hadn't reckoned with his patience, though. Like a cheetah, he followed my Googling with semi-avid interest. He must have calculated that three minutes were sufficient time to repeat that horrid statement, an octave higher.

"I have a burning sensation when I take a leak."

What the hell!

I don't want to know that. I grew up in the eighties and came of age in the nineties. The phrase "burning sensation" in any sentence that involved pissing always ended up with a visit to a urologist at which time possible diagnoses would be considered before a large dose of very powerful antibiotics would be prescribed. The physician would then lecture his patient, interjecting frequently with words like "prophylactics" and phrases like "abstinence, being faithful and condom".

I most certainly did not want to have this conversation with him. But like I said, that bugger is like a cheetah. "So what do you think?" he asked casually. There was no way I was getting away with my usual mumbling. He should have known it would not end well. He has, after all, known me for the better part of a decade.

Perhaps it was the stupid coastal humidity, or the fact that my hotel is shit, or that I hate coming down here when idiots are lobbing grenades or stabbing strangers in the streets. Either way, he did not get the sympathetic ear he was looking for. Maybe he'll remember that friends are honest with each other; it may take him a few years for the sting of my words to fade. My recitation of his profligate proclivities that went to his problem at hand was emphatically delivered in a long soliloquy that did not use any of the soft words my mother insisted were a necessary cushion for harsh judgments. When I was finished, his face was as red as a tomato, I was winded (all those Dunhills are taking a toll) and our friendship was certainly headed for straitened times.

We all dislike being put on the spot over others' dodgy medical issues. Certainly we want to avoid anything that might bring up sexual histories. We pretend that we do not know what we know, and we pray that no one brings it up. We know what we should do; we are loath to admit that we did not. So every now and then we find ourselves in the cold embrace of harsh reality and we call on our friends to step in and offer words of comfort. This imposition can sometimes weary the soul, especially when previous unheeded words of advice hang in the air between us. We take it as a personal affront that when it could have counted, our friends chose mulishness over our perceived sagacity.

I sympathise with him; after all it will not be a comfortable tête-à-tête with his doctor. But there is little comfort I can offer save words. In the fullness of time, I pray, he will hear what I said, and he will not take it to heart that I was overly harsh. If it turns out to be something serious, he will have all the time in the world to remember that though I may have affected a stern visage, it was due to the immense fear that it could be something serious.