I haul my aching body into the GP’s surgery so I can have my “Well man check”. First up I see the nurse. She asks me questions. Personal questions. How much do I drink? Hmm, how does anyone answer this question? It has been said that healthcare professionals double what you tell them. So do you tell them half as much as you drink, or just let go with the full amount? Anyway, I figured honesty is the best policy, and fess up to 3 bottles of wine. “A day?” she asks. FFS! Can’t win. I explain that’s in a week, and we move on to diet. Now dear Dad was a salad dodger, not in a 250kg waddler type of way, just that he didn’t eat much veg. Those old genetics came into play, and he passed it on to me. If the only piece of meat left in the world was attached to me, I would rather chow on my own leg than go vegan.
Nurse “How many portions of green veg do you eat?”
Me “Oh four or five”
Nurse “Oh, well done, 3-4 a day is great, so that is excellent”
Me “A week”
Nurse looks sad, and forces a wry smile.
She does an ECG, and takes my observations. Apparently my urine sample contains blood, protein and ketones. Not too much to worry about, given the recent history. And then we are back to the questions.
Nurse “Sex life?”
Nurse “Do you have an active sex life?”
Now is this the opposite of the alcohol question? Do they halve what you say ?
Me “Yes 3-4 times”
Her “a week?”
Me “a day”
Bazinga! She doesn’t know where to look as I sit there in my undies, and flash her a winning grin. Almost immediately afterwards, I realise that I don’t know where I’m going with this and concede, that is, in fact, a week. Turns out all she wanted to know was did I have a monogamous relationship…..oops.
Anyway, back to the exam. The Dr comes in, checks me out, with an appreciative eye, and gets down to the examination. I lie on the couch and she begins to look me over, and then this happens. As she approaches my nether regions, she reaches over to her desk and picks up…
A FUCKING MAGNIFYING GLASS!
Oh the shame. It was cold in there. I was nearly naked. When it comes to man’s parts I’m of the opinion that you’re either a grower or a show-er. Meaning you can cavort around naked displaying your massive pork sword, but when it comes to the crunch, it just firms up and doesn’t actually grow much. Or you can be furnished with a reasonable sausage, that becomes a more formidable weapon when it needs to. You can guess which one I am.
Luckily, there is a mole just below my belly button, and that was what necessitated closer inspection with the magnifying device. Oh sweet joy. She asked if everything was all right down there, to which I hastily replied in the affirmative, before mentioning the chill in the room, for good measure. Another mole on my shoulder apparently disagreed with her, because 5 minutes later I’m face down on the couch with a scalpel digging around in my flesh, as the offending tissue was relocated into a sample pot.
She listens to my chest, looks in my ears, mouth and eyes, and gives me a slip for my blood tests. And that was it. No bollock cupping and coughing, no finger up the bum, it was a breeze. So if any of you lot haven’t had one, and you’re the wrong end of your 40’s, off you trot.