I chant.. “I love smears, I love smears.”
Positive repetition works apparently.
Maybe I should have been repeating it since that last one as my happy mojo seems to have buggered off with my waistline.
“It’s not so bad.” I croon to my lady garden, who is looking quite presentable for the first time in months. My pelvic floors clamp angrily in disgust; why the hell they don’t respond like that when I am sneezing I will never know.
It is nine fifteen and my appointment is nine ten. I reluctantly turn off the engine and slink like a teenager, head down, feet shuffling, mouth set in a scowl and head into the surgery.
“Blackmore, Jane” I mumble to the alert, skippy, receptionist. “Sorry dear?,” she questions, “I didn’t catch that.”
“Blackmore, Jane.” I repeat in a louder, grumpier tone. “Ahhhh” says the receptionist, “here for a smear? – I hope your vagina isn’t too smelly.”
“Pardon!?” I exclaim, heat rushing into my cheeks.
Startled the woman responds, “I said, I have booked you in with Doctor Kelly. Please take a seat.”
Embarrassed I shuffle away and sit next to an old man who looks like he is suffering with a severe case of hives.”
I chant again, “I love smears, I love smears.”
The old man suffering with a severe case of hives moves his seat.
My name is called, my first reaction is to flee, hands covering my love bug. But politeness rules me and I stand and walk into the doctor’s office.
I am asked to removed my lower garments and to lay on the bed and cover myself with a sheet. I take great care to fold my jeans meticulously so I look like a neat person, I leave my best knickers on the top, pure lace, so the doctor can believe I have still have what it takes. She need never know about the greying set of M&S I wear usually every day. I lay on the table that she has called a bed and try to arrange a paper towel, which she called a sheet, to protect my modesty. The paper towel breaks in my hand and I lay with half my princesses castle exposed.
Doctor Kelly walks into the curtained off area and attempts to make small talk. I struggle with small talk at the best of times and normally take a thick book to the hairdressers to avoid such chats. However etiquette tells me that reading a novel at a smear is bad manners so I left my kindle at home.
Maybe it is just me but I cannot chat about the weather or my impending holidays when half my vagina is exposed and I am in a room with a woman who I have never met before who is snapping on plastic gloves and brandishing a silver dildo shaped clamp at me. But fair play to me, I attempted to try.
I confirm the weather was freezing and Cornwall is our destination of choice this year.
Then we both sit for a while in awkward silence whilst she prepares to insert a scary looking device into my seldom used love box.
“This may be cold.” she said without a hint of apology.
My eyes darted right to the radiator on the wall that was cheerily pumping out heat. It was not like she didn’t know I was coming, would it have been too much to have rested the speculum on a soft towel on the radiator for five minutes to warm it through like a cheese scone?
Apparently so, the bastard thing felt like pure ice in my whatyamacallit.
“I see you have had an abnormal smear in the past,” she comments whilst fiddling about in my privates, “whoops, sorry.”
I gasp out a “yes” with tears stinging at my eyes from whatever the ‘whoops’ had pinched.
“So you have a smear yearly?”
Again I confirm ‘yes’ as much as I loathe (start chanting again) these things I am pretty sure it beats cervical cancer so I will carry on regardless.
“Just one more thing.” she continues and with a final pinch, “all done.”
With a smile she hands me another sheet of stiff paper, presumably to use to sort myself out as covering my lower half now seemed a bit redundant after she had just had a full conversation with the part of me that he who helped create them longs to see more often.
We continue another five minutes of cringe worthy conversation about the importance of smears until eventually impatience overruled politeness and I blurt out ’can I put me knickers back on please.’
Then we are both embarrassed that she had failed to notice my still nakedness and decided to say no more.
I leave with a slight limp, my lace pants riding up my backside the way that only posh pants do.
I booked in for next years.
I walk to the car, chanting “I love smears….”
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