"Circular, and dark blue, with a Tupperware-style lid, it is precisely the kind of vessel you’d transport a soup or salad in."

"I’ve even sealed it inside a freezer bag, to contain any leaks. Or smells. I walk slowly and with care across Westminster Bridge, because any trip could prove disastrous. As I enter St Thomas’ Hospital and head for the infection department on the fifth floor, I realise the object I’m carrying is still warm, and, despite my preparations, I’m sure I can detect a faint whiff of something ripe, like camembert. It is, in a word, a turd. Freshly laid, and brimming with bacteria, the doctors I’m delivering it to believe such faeces could be the future of medicine. I’ve carried mine across London to be made into capsules – that someone else will ultimately eat...."

 
Writes Linda Geddes, in "Keep taking the crapsules: how I became a faecal transplant donor" (The Guardian).

Désirée Prossomariti, a research biomedical scientist, takes my sample and opens it inside a biosafety cabinet. Watching her scoop my poop into a series of plastic containers feels uncomfortable: it’s not often we hand over something so intimate, nor so laden with cultural taboos, to a fellow human. Prossomariti reassures me that she views faeces as “just another type of specimen.” 

“A lot of people get grossed out by it, but it is not much worse than blood. Besides,” she adds, “in my personal opinion, it is not the most disgusting thing you can work with.” 

“What is?” I ask. 

“Sputum,” she says. “That’s awful.”