Had to visit the nurse today for one of those tests we women all dread..yes ladies, breath in and grind your teeth, it’s the smear.
I expect all males to now recoil in horror, hide behind the sofa and rock in the foetal position - but don’t worry boys, this isn’t about the actual procedure, I will be saying nothing about the frighteningly large conical shaped equipment, or the highly inappropriate jokes the nurse made at rather poignant moments - oh, how we laughed (ahem)!
No, this is about the twenty minutes spent waiting for said appointment.
My bottom hadn’t even touched the seat in the waiting room before I was greeted by a three-year-old boy who asked me if my feet smelt. Apparently not expecting a response to his question, he went on to present me with a leaflet about bladder problems, and trotted off towards his mum, informing her: “That lady is long.” I’ve heard worse.
Thankfully Harry (hopefully named after Potter, not Styles) was called through to see the doctor shortly after.
Sat quietly tapping the bladder problems leaflet on my thigh, with the patience of a labrador waiting for his bowl to be filled, I saw a man I used to work with. He bounded over - his eyes darting to my choice of reading material and enthusiastically said: “Hi Helen, how are you?”
*Sigh*.
You think you might be marginally memorable, and then you’re mistaken for the work experience girl who worked on the floor below. I chose the only response I could under the circumstances: “Hi Rob, yeah I’m OK thanks, and you?” His name is James.
Finally, just seconds before being called in for the annual internal poke-athon, the receptionist, who was randomly also my dinner lady 25 years ago, shouts across the waiting room at the top of her rather gruff, yet bellowing voice: “Clare, love, it’s you having the smear isn’t it?”
Yes, it’s me - the one being swallowed up by the ground. You’ve gotta love Hucknall!
No comments:
Post a Comment