How a nurse can ruin your day ...

It's December.

And to welcome the month in I had a smear test today. JOY JOY JOY. Not exactly the opening of the advent calendar to the little joy of the chocolate. More the opening of ... well. Enough. There is something horribly medieval about those metal duck-billed cold basting devices. 'I'm rather nervous' I told the nurse. She looked at me over spectacles (not a medieval accessory I realise, but her look was withering, I felt like a witch about to be dunked). 'I don't really like this' I whimpered, trying to elicit sympathy. What on earth kind of comment was that? As if others spring into the surgery legs spread with excitement. 'Do you have a boyfriend? Hmm, well, doesn't he touch you?'

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
(Sorry, not sure how else to express the expression I made at this point).
Is that harrassment??

Good god. The NHS. Bedside manner. What are they teaching these people? Oh Lord. Forgive me. I nearly went down on my knees. I'm sorry for ever having had sex! For being a woman! For having a cervix! For having to trouble you, oh nurse, to do this thing. Who is more humiliated here?

Then, well, and why I'm telling you this: she bloody well weighed me! Was this part of the procedure? Do fat people need bigger torture instruments or was she just in torture mode?

81 kilos.

F**k.

'You need to lose weight'.

Thank you nurse.

'I see that you smoke. Hmmm. The pill, weight, smoking, over 30 years of age. Hmmm. Not good'.

Thank you nurse.

I thought I might just lay down and die by the statistics right there and then.

So, that was how a nurse ruined my day. Come back Elle, you, and the crab sticks are forgiven. I called Ray, to atone. He told me he has now lost 6 and a half stone on THE PLAN. Jesus. I have friends who weight little more than that. OH GOD. I felt heavier and heavier as we talked, as I was, coincidentally idling the isles of Sainsburys at the time, putting back the cheese and cereal like a child caught stealing penny sweets.

December. If it isn't the cruellest month it ought to be. Twenty days to go to 'the dress'.