A week from now, a stranger is going to reach down my throat and rip out a piece of my stomach.
Sure, my gastroenterologist calls it a biopsy for Coeliac's Disease. But his fancy words don't fool me.
In preparation for the test, I've had to start eating gluten again. I've been using it as an excuse to eat the sort of rubbish that I shouldn't eat even if I could: donuts, croissants, meat pies, beer battered fish and chips.
But I really need to eat something good, something complex and delicious the memory of which will keep me warm during the bleak, gluten-free decades to come.
I need suggestions. So imagine: you can have one last wheat-containing meal for the rest of your life.
What would you eat?
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Ten metres under the waves.
I'm kneeling gently on a bed of kelp. The fronds sway softly in the currents. Above and to the right of me, one of the students is having a panic attack. But she's in magnificent hands: _ryn is calming her, holding her hand, settling her breathing.
Soon the class will be ready, and we will swim deeper. There's a blue devil fish down there, and a undersea canyon that used to be the Yarra, and a toadfish that the instructor will pull by the tail so that it puffs up into a spiky ball.
And after that: the heavy climb back into the boat, then hours of theory, and the final exam, and the instructor quietly informing who is now a certified Open Water Diver, and who still needs more work.
But that's all still in the future.
Right now, I'm kneeling on a bed of kelp, ten metres below the waves.
And all I am thinking is yes.