Today I had to go to hospital.
It's okay. I'M STILL ALIVE!
I had an appointment for a feminine procedure. I took James with me for comfort, but when I was finally called I took a deep breath, covered my privates with a linen sheet, mounted the Colposcopy Torture Chair (see below for image) and allowed a man in a white coat to take photographs of my cervix. Some may be embarrassed by this, but I'm not ashamed of what I had done, in fact I think I am in a privileged position, as I have seen the inside of my own vagina. How many women can say that, eh?!* I know exactly what my cervix looks like. I'm not boasting, but I could probably pick it out of a line up, if I ever had to.
This is the chair that they put me in:Those ain't arm-rests, gents, they're for your KNEES!
I only nearly cried, and that was when the surgeon told me to cough because he 'couldn't find' my cervix. I yelled "WHAT? HAS IT DISAPPEARED?!", and the nurse placed her hand reassuringly on my thigh (in hindsight she was probably restraining me).
So yes, way much more information than any of you will ever want to know, but I had to preserve this moment for all posterity, so that I may bore my daughters with horror stories when they reach child-bearing age.
Oh yeah, and I worked out that the Whittington Hospital is named after Dick Whittington. It only took me five years. Which is less than it took me to work out that Q8 fuel's name is a pun on 'Kuwait'.
* except the several thousand across the world that have it done every day. Obviously. I never said it wasn't common!