(N.B. I don’t care if you don’t want to hear about my latest smear test. Shut up.)
I think I may have had the second most embarrassing moment of my entire life this afternoon.* Today was smear day. To give you an idea of my level of dislike for smear tests, when I get that letter through saying I am due for a smear, I find myself disappointed that it wasn’t a letter saying that I have been diagnosed with a terminal illness.
So, after waiting in reception for what seemed like hours, I entered the nurse’s room and removed my jeans in shameful silence. Not that there’s anything shameful about smears, you understand, but I defy anyone to get their flange out in front of a complete stranger and not feel a little bit reluctant to just “let your knees flop naturally down to the side”.
And so I lay there with nothing but a tiny toilet-paper square covering my shmoo and watched her put the steel car-jack of death into a special microwave (which I bet she used for her micronoodles at lunch the dirty bitch). After hearing the familiar ‘ping’ it was time for the obligatory pre-violation conversation to commence:
“Hope it’s not too cold for you!”
“Hehe, no it’ll be fine don’t worry” – Stop talking to me, stop talking to me.
“Okay, just relax, it won’t be as bad if you relax”
“Hehe, okay I’ll try” – Get your dirty great big fucking elephant hands away from my chonch.
“Can you relax a bit more?”
“Hehe, yeah sorry” – Wait a minute…is that a bit of fucking pot noodle on the end of that car-jack? Oh God, please be Chicken & Mushroom, Bombay Badboy really fucking stings.
Now normally, this next paragraph would contain a harrowing account of what can only be described as a depraved act of mental and physical torture. On this occasion, however, it was relatively painless. I mean, not like Disneyland or anything, but pretty okay!
As I was putting my jeans back on I felt the need to tell the nurse how pleased I was with her handiwork. I believe that people should be told when they do a good job as, especially in the NHS, I don’t think it happens nearly enough. Unfortunately for both of us though, this is what I chose to say:
“Well, thanks! That was…….you were….the best I’ve had. I mean, that was really good um……….smearing.”
That is what I said to her. What a dick. She just kind of stopped de-lubing her equipment and looked at me, said thanks in the form of a question and did a little laugh, the kind of laugh I imagine a person would make if Ian Huntly told them a joke about dead children.
I ran out of the room and into the street as fast as I could. Why the hell did I have to ruin a perfectly satisfactory experience? She didn’t want my thanks, she just wanted me to get my minge out of her face so she could finish her lunch. I now have three years until my next one and I hope it hurts like a bitch so I don’t feel the uncontrollable urge to buy the nurse a thank you card entitled “It’s a Dirty Job, but I’m Glad You’re the Someone Who Had to Do It”.
*The single most embarrassing experience of my life involved menstruation and my driving instructor’s car. I don’t want to talk about it.