My first in ages, sudden date with destiny
I donned my only matching bra and pants
I washed, primped, buffed, filed, moisturised the rest of me
(The dog watched on and looked at me askance.)
I found the place, parked parallel and neatly
and walked in with an insouciant air
‘Hello, I’m Lynn.’ I smiled. She smiled back sweetly
and indicated I should take a chair.
She asked me questions I thought were invasive
about my age, my health, my mum, my dad,
what happened in my long gone salad days. (If
I had some, I’d forgotten that I had.)
‘Just go through there.’ She pointed with her finger,
‘They will be with you in a little while.’
Best to get it done, I didn’t linger
I thanked her with a fake confident smile.
‘Take off your kit,’ the sign loosely translated
‘and then we’ll call you when we’re good and ready.’
I checked for cameras, peeled my togs off, waited
Hung my bag up, hands somewhat unsteady.
I could say she was big and butch and muscly
with warty nose, and knuckles with tattoos,
or tiny, twee and cute, dressed rather fussily
in leopard print and wearing Jimmy Choos.
In fact, she was quite pleasant and quite normal
neat and clean, efficient and polite
neither too relaxed nor over-formal
almost reassured me. But not quite.
‘Referral, check-up, problem or prosthetic?’
I assured her this appointment was routine
That everything was home-grown, not cosmetic
more or less as it had always been.
‘OK. Stand still. Just so. Won’t take a minute.’
Then she grabbed me. I was not expecting that.
A contraption had my frontage held within it
And worse, it had it squashed completely flat.
I tried to think of ways that I could tell her
I wasn’t happy. I did not approve
My flinching caught her eye, I heard her yell. Her
eyes were slits ‘I told you not to move!’
I was affronted. Literally! I wasn’t moving
with my chest bump held tight in her vicious vice.
She tutted, wound it tighter, disapproving
I began to think she wasn’t very nice.
Four times I had to put up with the squeezing
The prodding, poking, up down, left and right
Knees slightly bent. You want to know the reason?
The thing was not exactly the right height.
I pondered while my body was tormented
By this medieval diagnostic tool
How come no better way has been invented,
less potentially explosive and less cruel?
‘Don’t be a wimp! All limp and pale and pasty!’
my love responded to my tearful text.
‘OK’ I said ‘Just get along here hasty.
I’ve booked you in as well, and you’re up next!’