To HIV and to HIV not

Yesterday I went for an HIV test. There's a drop-in centre at the Royal Free: not that you'd know it's there unless you'd been told about it. There's no sign saying gays, sub-Saharans and the promiscuous this way. You're directed to the relevant common waiting room where you can speculate on each other's reckless shame. And of course, it's impossible to tell who's reactive just by looking. Strikingly impossible.
Here's an obviously gay couple being tested in tandem. A guy who looks west African. A young bloke who may have sniffed too much glue. Four young women of varying ages who appear distinctly un-slutty; I suspect one of them is a virgin, or maybe a one time only. Another guy in his forties who seems very straight. All of which reinforces the theme that you just can't tell and how glad I am that my wanton days are behind me.
So why was I there? I have cancer. I take interferon to treat it. Interferon lowers your sperm count, so I need to deposit some for future expenditure. The bank requires an HIV test. This rather long-winded explanation earned me the sympathy of of the nurse, who let me off the £30 fee to certify my negative result. So from the land of the incurable, I receive sympathy.
Clearly there's still a perception that people infected with HIV deserve it whereas people with cancer don't: people are victims of cancer but suffer from HIV. Yet for all he knew I could be a chain-smoking supplier of DDT. And the 25 million people who died over the last 25 years from AIDS-related illnesses weren't all reprobabtes.
Nevertheless, while I was surprised by his tea and sympathy, I want to highligh what an excellent service this is. It took about 45 minutes from walking into the clinic to getting my result and it's free (unless you need a piece of paper to prove your health). There's nothing that goes on your medical record, so it's as anonymous as you want to make it. If only it were advertised more heavily.