A REAL Horror Story

Right out of the blue today, a memory popped up which may well be unsuitable for the faint hearted. Thinking back on it made me giggle anyway so here goes.
Following my radio and chemo therapy (they do it pre as opposed to post operative in France), the plan was to give me a temporary colostomy (6 weeks or so and actually an illeostomy), cut out the bad bits and hopefully return me to my original state afterwards.  Unfortunately they found that the bits they needed to remove were about the size of Yorkshire so it didn't quite go according to plan.  For about five months my poor family had to play "will he, won't he" whilst I languished in bed with the aid of a constant supply of morphine patches.  Just a note here.  My experience and the advice I have been given by the medical trade, is that morphine is not addictive if it is genuinely being used to combat severe pain.  When I decided that I no longer needed it I just stopped.  No side effects, no withdrawal, nothing.  Strange stuff morphine.  It was during this period that I saw what was absolutely the funniest door in the galaxy.  It just happened to be my bedroom door and I guess because it was so close it made me laugh for a whole day.  My daughter, who was then 7 would just tell my wife that "daddy's away with the birdies again".  During this time I lost over 40 kilos (not surprising as I didn't eat anything for many weeks and survided on a drip at home) and looked in a pretty poor state.  I eventually began to get an appetite back so as soon as I could stand and walk a few yards it seemed sensible to go out to a restaurant, have a big meal and a fair bit of wine.  I can't actually recall being told by my doctors to do this but being French I was pretty sure thay would approve.  Those with weak stomachs should stop reading now.
After a superb meal I returned home.  As I got out of the car I had a vague sensation that something was different.  I somehow felt liberated.  Somehow lighter.  Perhaps the wine but it seemed a more physical sensation.  Upon retiring to the bathroom to change the colostomy bag I discovered that the reason for my new found freedom was that the bag had disappeared. Gone. Completely bloody vanished.  This was the closest I ever came to panic.  Scalpels, stitches (I had about 450 and now look like a patchwork quilt made by hippo) chemo & radio therapy etc are as nothing compared with the sheer terror of having mislaid a colostomy bag.  An immediate search of house and car turned up nothing.  Ditto the car park and road outside the retaurant.  Steven King eat your heart out.  This is real horror!  There remained only one other place that it could be.  "I think I left my wallet/mobile/purse/lizard in here a few minutes ago, do you mind if I look" is one thing - but a colostomy bag?  It wasn't there!  Thank God, the colostomy bag fairy had disappeared it!  I spent hours trying to figure it out but to no avail.  The idea of an advert in the lost/found section of the local newspaper was no good.  Putting up flyers in the local shops was a none starter.  So if any of you good people happened to be on holiday in the North Dordogne in early 2001, and you happened to find.........