I received a letter at the end of last year inviting me to have a mammogram.
“But I’m not 50!” I shouted at the piece of paper, before reading the small print saying I’d been specially selected for an early one. How nice.
The date was just a few weeks away; the location – in the car park of the local health centre. Yay!
The day arrived and as I walked into said car park, my heart sank. Discreet it was not. The large trailer announced – in two foot high letters – that this was, indeed, the “BREAST SCREENING SERVICE”. Thanks for that; I wouldn’t have spotted the thirty foot long metal box without it.
Could I sneak in and out quietly? No. It was necessary to clamber up a rickety metal staircase, announcing my ascent with eight resounding clangs as I took each step. I might as well have carried a banner stating “GETTING MY TITS OUT FOR THE GALS!”
Inside, I was greeted by a nice receptionist who asked a few simple questions before asking me to go into booth number 1, strip to the waist and wait until I was called.
A door closed, my door opened.
“Come in, Mrs Goldsack”
“Miss,” I muttered under my breath.
“My name’s Sarah and I’ll be squishing your boobs for you today.”
“Lovely! Thanks, Sarah.”
It was over quickly and painlessly. I was ushered back into my booth to get dressed. The door had barely closed before I heard the door to what I assume was booth 2.
“Come in… My name’s Sarah and I’ll be squish…”
It was a production line of boob squishing.
I dressed quickly and could only manage a quick “Bizarre!” to the receptionist as I made my way, clickety click, down the staircase.
Bizarre, because I could imagine how a cow would feel being led in and out of the milking shed.
I’ve had the results now: “No sign of cancer.” Whilst that’s great to know, I think, just to add a little bit of sparkle to the ordeal, the letter should be reworded to say…
“Congratulations! You have beautiful, healthy boobies.”
I’d like that.