Tuesday, April 26, 2005

I rarely visit the doctors. Aside from a back complaint that required attention a couple of years ago, I simply can't remember the last time I was there. But tomorrow I am due to attend a 'well man's clinic'. Which is, I fear, the kind of thing you do when you're of 'a certain age'. It's the aching bones that drew me back to the GP. But my big fear is that tomorrow, around 9.45am, a butch hairy nurse will, in the interest of my prostate, want to interfere with my anus. I wonder if they insert a finger as a matter of course, without warning. Maybe they do ask but I worry that they won't and one minute I'll be chatting about the weather and the next...well, there's no need to be too graphic. Will I cry? Will I find it frighteningly pleasurable? Will it reveal that my prostate is malfunctioning? I guess it's good to know these things. Before I'm tampered with I will no doubt have to get past the SS-like doctor's receptionist, a mostly impenetrable force of oposition who, when I made the call to book an apointment - a major hurdle for a medical-phobic like myself - advised me in no uncertain terms to change doctors. Bless her. The bitch. Scary thought to keep me awake tonight - maybe she's doing the clinic?

Tune: The Smiths - William It Was Really Nothing.

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