Ok so this week may get a bit uncomfortable for you. I’d advise you give my blog a break for a while if you’d rather read entries about Chatsworth and the theatre. If you are feeling brave, read on…
I had a letter two weeks ago. It was that letter. The one all women dread.
How can it have been three years already? Is time accelerating? It comes round nearly as quickly as I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here.
It didn’t scare me so much this time. Let’s just say I’ve been here before a few times of late.
But I’m in a ticking things off lists sort of a place. It’s my operation tomorrow and seemingly going into hospital instills a maniacal sense of nesting in me. (It’s not too bad though because my Dad has volunteered to clean the cooker.)
Anyway I rang the GP to book an appointment. The choice of date and time was limited, just for a change, so I thought I’d make my week even more joyful by having a smear the day before my operation (and torturing myself with a lack of wine afterwards – all sponsors gratefully accepted).
All in all the experience wasn’t that bad. At least that’s done for another three years. Although I do sometimes wonder if I’m actually living in a sitcom:
“Just lie on the bed and cover yourself with the modesty sheet”
“Er ok.” (Modesty? Really”)
“Sorry but the big light isn’t working”
“Mmm. But I’ve been doing quite well with this torch though.”
“It’s a head torch actually.”
I thought I ought to make it clear that she wasn’t going potholing. She reassured me she wasn’t going to wear it.
I kept my eyes closed throughout…