Sitting in a hospital gown with no ties on it, clutching it to your chest like you're being painted by a pre-Raphaelite in peril on the sea and the lifeboat is going down, in the corridor of the local National Health Centre Trust - in my case - St Mary's.
Inside there's a posh girl on the phone to her boyfriend:
'Hello darling, I just wanted to call you and say that it would be nice...' (Voice tails off as she listens to interjection from other party.)
'I do love you, you know.' (Said as though there was some doubt about it. I'm thinking the boyfriend got an earful at some point earlier in the morning.)
'I would like to take the children to see my old college, though...' (Ah, Oxbridge. Naturally.)
'Yes, I finished with the last man really quickly and I just wanted to...'
A tall floppy haired chap in blue scrubs walks past me without noticing I'm there - this is, my dears, what happens, even nay especially when, you are half naked, and fifty, and sitting in full view in public.
Invisibility.
Even in your nicest, yet demure, bra (I learned my too showy lesson with the consultant last month).
Conversation continues: 'Well I better go now, goodbye, beautiful, gorgeous boy...' she says, wistfully, and then segues straight into discussion with tall floppy hair. '....encapsulitis... we're going to... ultrasound... inject.' I hear, with none of the clarity and stage presence of the tones she used to address lover boy. I strain my ears to hear her say 'elderly matron, possibly hypochondriac, cut her arm off, if this doesn't work we'll put her down,' but just then I am summoned into her holy presence.
She's lovely. No girl. About 40, tops, with (I later discover) two children 7 and 5 and (more later discoveries) lives in Crouch End, and has dark, serious spectacles and a very smart, pretty face with perfectly made up eyes which the glasses only spotlight. She is also slim and wearing a wrap around dress that goes round about twice.
She explains what she is going to do to Marius - the floppy haired chap who may be a Martian for all the introduction we've had. I eavesdrop. She's going to stick a needle into my joint and flood it with saline and then steroids. I nearly faint.
'Erm, what's bursitis?' I ask weakly when she pauses for breath. She tells me. I instantly forget. All I can see is a world of pain where Marius, who is having trouble finding my tendon with the ultrasound (and killing me by asking me to twist my arm into a shape it hasn't been into in a year), treats me like I'm a dummy that he can practice on.
I am now extremely jealous. How come bloody saves-lives and makes-a-difference, Doctor Lovely gets a 'beautiful, gorgeous - I do love you - boy' while all I get is a freaking floppy haired Greek laddie about to stick a 10 gauge needle into my shoulder joint. I realise I may have answered my own question. It doesn't help to know the answer.
In the end Marius does not get to use me for a dart board. Doctor Lovely gives me enough local anesthetic to numb me to my knees (particularly useful for my personal life) and then proceeds to punch me with Maxwell's silver hammer from the inside of my shoulder where, mystifyingly, the numbness doesn't reach. It's like a broken heart all over again - frozen on the outside and dying inside. Not pleasant when you can actually feel someone tampering with the inner sanctum of your joints.
'It should be a little bit heavy now,' Dr Lovely said.
'It just feels *ing sore' I replied showing off my aforementioned talent for the choice curse word. Five minutes of toe-curdling pain, and her location and breeding details, later she said: 'You're doing very well. It's going to be over in a nanosecond.'
A nanosecond is a long time when you're squashed on your front with a needle in your shoulder.
'Are you comfortable?' she asks.
No, I'm losing inches off my bust which is folding up underneath itself, I didn't say, plumping (if only) for the more sedate: 'I'm fine but at times like these I wish I didn't have boobs.'
'Yes, they're a nuisance, - and dangerous too,' she added cheerily (another ruddy thing to worry about... I silently panicked). 'Just as well they're fun,' she said, no doubt thinking of gorgeous, beautiful boy.
Aye, speak for yourself dear, I thought, unfolding myself and smoothing the creases out of my chest. Speak for yourself.
Conversation continues: 'Well I better go now, goodbye, beautiful, gorgeous boy...' she says, wistfully, and then segues straight into discussion with tall floppy hair. '....encapsulitis... we're going to... ultrasound... inject.' I hear, with none of the clarity and stage presence of the tones she used to address lover boy. I strain my ears to hear her say 'elderly matron, possibly hypochondriac, cut her arm off, if this doesn't work we'll put her down,' but just then I am summoned into her holy presence.
She's lovely. No girl. About 40, tops, with (I later discover) two children 7 and 5 and (more later discoveries) lives in Crouch End, and has dark, serious spectacles and a very smart, pretty face with perfectly made up eyes which the glasses only spotlight. She is also slim and wearing a wrap around dress that goes round about twice.
She explains what she is going to do to Marius - the floppy haired chap who may be a Martian for all the introduction we've had. I eavesdrop. She's going to stick a needle into my joint and flood it with saline and then steroids. I nearly faint.
'Erm, what's bursitis?' I ask weakly when she pauses for breath. She tells me. I instantly forget. All I can see is a world of pain where Marius, who is having trouble finding my tendon with the ultrasound (and killing me by asking me to twist my arm into a shape it hasn't been into in a year), treats me like I'm a dummy that he can practice on.
I am now extremely jealous. How come bloody saves-lives and makes-a-difference, Doctor Lovely gets a 'beautiful, gorgeous - I do love you - boy' while all I get is a freaking floppy haired Greek laddie about to stick a 10 gauge needle into my shoulder joint. I realise I may have answered my own question. It doesn't help to know the answer.
In the end Marius does not get to use me for a dart board. Doctor Lovely gives me enough local anesthetic to numb me to my knees (particularly useful for my personal life) and then proceeds to punch me with Maxwell's silver hammer from the inside of my shoulder where, mystifyingly, the numbness doesn't reach. It's like a broken heart all over again - frozen on the outside and dying inside. Not pleasant when you can actually feel someone tampering with the inner sanctum of your joints.
'It should be a little bit heavy now,' Dr Lovely said.
'It just feels *ing sore' I replied showing off my aforementioned talent for the choice curse word. Five minutes of toe-curdling pain, and her location and breeding details, later she said: 'You're doing very well. It's going to be over in a nanosecond.'
A nanosecond is a long time when you're squashed on your front with a needle in your shoulder.
'Are you comfortable?' she asks.
No, I'm losing inches off my bust which is folding up underneath itself, I didn't say, plumping (if only) for the more sedate: 'I'm fine but at times like these I wish I didn't have boobs.'
'Yes, they're a nuisance, - and dangerous too,' she added cheerily (another ruddy thing to worry about... I silently panicked). 'Just as well they're fun,' she said, no doubt thinking of gorgeous, beautiful boy.
Aye, speak for yourself dear, I thought, unfolding myself and smoothing the creases out of my chest. Speak for yourself.
