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I’ve just come back from having the doctor give my rusty star the quick once over. Christ on a bike, how nervous was I?
Lengthy-Boy’s had a Q.D.F. (qualified doctor’s finger) up his sheriff’s badge, whilst Richard Gere is apparently partial to small furry rodents. But it was virgin territory for yours truly.
See, I was washing my blow hole one evening in the bath when it felt a
fraction different. So when I got out, I put the shaving mirror on the
floor (as you do), squatted over it and....aghhhhh! There was this tiny
little....I dunno....but put it this way, if it had been on your face,
you’d definitely have had a go at lancing it. Only from what I could
feel, it didn’t seem as though it was the ‘popping’ kind.
Honest, I was all for getting the nail-clippers out right there and then and pincing it off.
Then I cut a piece of cotton with the view to ‘tying it off’, only no way could I do that with just the one pair of hands.
Which was around about the time I summoned the good lady wife.
“Do I have to (have a look)?” she said.
“Erm, I think you did say for better or for worse, if memory serves me correctly, my sweet,” I hastily reminded her.
All joking aside, readers, I was bricking it.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know!” she said, a tad too briskly.
See, all I really wanted to hear was, “Oh, it’s nothing at all to worry
about, baby. Your ringpiece looks beautiful. Forget all about it.”
But my wife’s not a doctor, no more than I’m a fishmonger.
So then I decided to bounce my predicament off a few close friends.
“’Ere, what do you reckon’s the matter with my raw-plug?” I emailed out
(alas, I did not add a Jpeg attachment of my dark squinting eye).
“It’s probably the first sign of Farmers,” said Johnny Boy from Boot
Camp. “I’ve had ’em. You want to get some Germaloid. It’s great stuff.”
Whereas Kingpin said, “Oooh, that could be serious, Captain. You want
to let the quack have a good rummage around up there for you.”
Thanks, Kingpin. Thanks for absolutely nothing.
Then female friends Ang and Wendy reckoned it might be a skin tag, but
weren’t offering to cast their beady eyes over it unless I was
absolutely desperate. (Oh, so then you would have done, would you,
ladies?)
Well, come the appointed hour, talk about sweating, sat in the waiting-room at the surgery.
I’d given my backside a B.G.P. (bloody good polishing) but half-an-hour
before, and then even gone round it again with a Baby Wet Wipe (The
Edge absolutely swears by those multi-purpose buggers), but I was still
like a cat on a hot tin roof.
“Did you request a male doctor?” my wife belatedly asked me.
“Doh!”
What if it were a female doctor, like out of a Carry On film (i.e. all
fit, like) and there was I, first thing on a Monday morning, wanting to
impress her (not) with my Black Hole of Calcutta.
“Would The Edge Editor please go to consulting room six!” the tannoy eventually announced to all and seated sundry.
Jesus, you need that.
THANK GOD, readers, THANK THE GOOD LORD ABOVE that it was a Pakistani doctor.
“How may I help you?” he asked.
“Well, for starters,” said I, “you’re going to need your rubber gloves
on...” But honest, it all went extremely matter-of-factly from there.
Ten minutes later, I was back out in my car feeling as though a ton weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
So, the moral of this story is, don’t be afraid to get your bits out in
front on a doctor because that’s what they’re there for. Much as you
might like your partner, or your mates, to help you out, chances are
they’re not qualified, so you really do have to confront your demons.
And that’s it, really. It seems as though I was getting all worked up over nothing.
Mind you, am I convinced my rear docking bay is 100% A.O.K.?
No, not really. But that’s just me. Sceptical? You bet. The fact that
some doctor said there’s nothing to worry about (so why is that thing
there???) doesn’t really cut the mustard where yours truly is
concerned. I can’t help it, but I believe that’s just his opinion, and
very little more.
But I do feel a damn sight more relaxed about matters now that I’ve shown him my bum.
Conclusion: Confront your fears, even if it means making a proper spectacle of yourself.
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