Lord Lucan

The cervical screening agency have, presumably, been firing out my reminder letters to… someone. Judging by the plaintive tone of the letter I eventually received from my practice nurse, they must have been sending me exploding-speculum howlers.

I dutifully made an immediate appointment and bowled up on time, feeling virtuous. Our practice nurse is an old acquaintance and we were chatting merrily right up until she cranked open the speculum and went in search of my cervixes. Cervi. Cervices. Whatever.

There are a handful of medicos – lucky people! – that have had the opportunity of becoming reasonably au fait with my cleverly different

uterine didelphys construction: practice nursey is one of them.  A seasoned professional in any case, and veteran of several Voyages with Bow, Rod, Staff and Speculum along the Wifey reproductive bits, she had the forethought to prepare two vials, and two scrapy-things. And that’s where her carefully-laid plans went agley, because it seems that things downstairs have… really changed.

Bless the woman: she was down there an age. A 2010 age is about 15 minutes, I think.

Unflustered yet struggling, she gave me a running commentary of her difficulties with my recalcitrant cervi, during which time her complexion moved several shades towards Hard Labour and her neatly wound bun came several straggles nearer to Through A Hedge Backwards.   

She said it’s a good job she absolutely knew there were definitely two to begin with.

Apparently, one of them has fucked off.

Instead of a neatly-presented duo, I now have an enormous cyclops-like cervix (“It’s definitely had a baby, that one.”) that pops cheerily into view whenever the speculum is opened – and point-blank refuses to move outta the damn way and let its smaller sister have her share of glory daylight. The sadly concertinaed state of my innards following Harry’s bazooka-like launch to Infinity and Beyond, plus internal scar tissue that no longer sits pertly in its proper place, contributed to make my left-hand cervix a far more accomplished hider than the average great train robber.

I DID wonder why locum GP had seemed so nonplussed last Spring. Philogynae didn’t seem to have a problem during his delve about, but he was packing more sets of stirrups than an OCD hoarding John Wayne AND he had a natty array of pube-scorching floodlights AND a handy foot-rest half-way up the wall AND a stout-hearted assistant.

‘But they used to be together!‘ she cried mournfully, after yet another failed rummage. ‘I could see them so clearly! They were unmistakable!’

Poor woman. I did my best to be helpful and encouraging, particularly mid-smear when she was utterly flummoxed as to which side Cyclops actually resided.

‘Give it a prod!’ I urged her.


‘Right hand one!’ I announced.

It gave her a frame of reference, at least, but no glimpse of my lesser-spotted cervix was to be had what.so.evah. 

She gave up in the end, on the premise that she felt she had prodded me about more than enough, and both her scrapy-things (which have become extra scrapy of late, I noted) were covered in blood.

‘I never thought I’d not be able to find your cervix!’ she said, shaking her head over the paperwork. I resisted the urge to pat her shoulder.

‘Never mind,’ I said, as I opened the door to the backlogged waiting room. ‘I’ve lost worse things.’


Following a Comedy of Unfunny Stuff, I now have an appointment on the 25th with my Consultant – who has seen my exceedingly peculiar (ME? Quelle surprise!) cardiac report and, by the sound of it, has officially Had Kittens. She wants to See Me In Clinic.

Way to reassure a girl.

So, I expect there will be No Surgery For Wifey until Consultant has hurled me through a CT scanner – which is a pricey piece of kit and awfully popular with the cerebrally Catastrophically Unfortunate at all hours of the night and day. Hence, I am not expecting any exciting imaging action anytime soon and I’ll then have to wait for surgery all over again.

Did I mention I was 35?

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