The Dreaded

It's been the best part of a week since I last posted anything on here. This is largely because I have had nothing much of interest to comment on, and the one thing I could comment on is potentially not blog-post material, and something which I needed some perspective on to find it's (slightly) humorous side.

On Monday, I had to have my first smear test (see I told you it was probably not suitable blog-post material). This in itself is something of a trauma, and those of you who have been through the process will know what I mean. It was a trauma made worse by the fact that the nurse looked scarily like my Nana, which was particularly unsettling as she sat me down to talk about my intimate bits and show me the variety of instruments she intended to use. I stopped short of telling her that there was absolutely no way those were going up there. No way at all. Apparently, I was wrong. So, I'm lying there on the couch trying to mind my own business (a difficult task when Nana-nurse is down there talking to my nether-regions) being told to relax (ah, yes of course, no bother Nan) when I suddenly feel a rather hard and sharp poke, to which I screamed "ouch", only to be asked whether that hurt. No, it didn't, not one bit - I'm just in the habit of shouting "ouch" for no particular reason. Obviously. I was then advised that the reason for the sharp prod was not what I thought (ie to carry out the actual test) but an attempt to find the bugger. I should point out at this moment, that my nether-regions do not resemble the black hole of Calcutta, so when Nana-nurse said "I'm afraid it's hiding", my first thought was "well, there can't be that many places for it to hide". Oh, how wrong was I? It transpires that it is some kind of tardis. It took another ten minutes for her to locate it. I thought she was going to have to call in MI5 (special branch) for assistance. Fortunately, Nana-nurse eventually located the fugitive and carried out the dreaded (an experience I am very pleased I do not have to repeat for a few years). She then started muttering : "oh, erm, ah". I can assure you, these are not sounds you want to hear coming from a nurse (who looks like your Nana) whilst she is fiddling in your downstairs. After a few awkward minutes and a vague attempt to re-gain my lost modesty, the nurse announced that there was "something not quite right". Yes, I thought, this whole process of you tinkering around in my tardis is "not quite right". Apparently, that's not what she meant. She had found something. Up there. Ooooh goody I thought, perhaps it is the winning lottery ticket? Alas, no, I was wrong again. It was something decidedly more sinister than a lottery ticket, and so on Wednesday I had to repeat the whole process with a doctor, who the receptionist was at pains to point out was a lady doctor and knew what she was dealing with (it would appear I am not the only woman with a fugitive hiding in her tardis then, what a terribly comforting thought). Fortunately, she didn't have to call in special branch. Clearly she was so terrifying that the fugitive decided to appear all of its own accord and the whole process took no more than a few minutes. Following which, I was told that there wasn't really anything much up there after all and that the nurse could have called a doctor in to take a look the first time round. Imagine my amusement.