Something had been irritating and worrying me – it was time to get it checked out. I phoned the hospital on Monday morning.
“Hello the Lydia clinic.”
“Hi I’d like to make an appointment please.”
“I’m sorry all the appointments are taken, try phoning back next Monday.”
Hmmm, that’s one way to keep the waiting lists down I guess.
Tuesday I decided to take another approach – I turned up to the walk in clinic and managed to get a ticket to see the doctor in the afternoon.
So there I am, sat in a waiting room full of the most furtive, sheepish looking men on the planet, heads hung in shame. I glance around to the coffee table next to me and pick up the well thumbed copy of GQ. Strangely no one else has bother to pick it up and flicking through the pages I suddenly discover why. This month’s installment of high gloss, lads mag has the following articles:
What women like in bed
Strangely the site of well oiled, nubile young women wearing nothing more than a couple of bits of string fails to arouse me. It’s something to do with the context and the current worries on my mind.
I place it back and watch the badly tuned TV, placed at an awkward angle given my current seat. Eventually I’m called through…
I sit through the usual list of questions – I say usual, not that they’re the kind of questions asked in polite conversation (do you use intravenous drugs, have you slept with prostitutes, do you have sex with men…[no, no, no – incase your wondering]) but I’ve been in these situations on more than one prior occasion. Maybe I should have learnt my lesson you might think, well bloody hell – I hope this is the last time.
Then we get down to the crux, or maybe I should say the point of the matter in hand. I explain the symptoms, the strange little white growth and my suspicions, given that C told me she’d had this previously.
We go to the examination room, this is one of those incredibly uncomfortable situations – I show the offending part of my anatomy, having to squeeze the end slightly to allow him to look just inside the pipe-work.
“Yes, I think that’s what you’ve got. We can give it some treatment now but you’ll have to come back every week for 4 to 6 weeks so we can treat it properly, given it’s location.”
So there I am, looking and feeling uncomfortable, holding my pride and joy in my hands whilst a guy I’ve never met before fires a jet of freezing liquid nitrogen right into my most delicate areas – not once – but three separate times, each until I can no longer stand the burning sensation.
I’ve taken pain before, had what amounts to long, thin, cotton wool buds shoved down those parts by over zealous nurses before but this is something different. OK maybe I exaggerate a bit, it wasn’t that bad. Now I’ve just got to wait for it to scab up, go black & drop off!!!