Well, what an experience! It was straight out of a TV soap. There I was, daintily spread on my side with the token white sheet revealing far more than it covered, while two young male medical students, one Greek and one Italian, plus the handsomest doctor in the world, peered up my bottom! I tell you, Julian Clary would have had a field day.
I arrived half an hour early as the local bus that goes straight to the hospital only runs every half hour and I needed time to find the right clinic in the sprawling building. I'd scarcely read a page of my book when my name was called. I glanced at my watch; still 20 mins to go before my appointment.
I'd better fill in a bit of background now. WARNING: Avert your eyes from this paragraph, all ye who are squeamishly inclined. I have had piles ever since I got pregnant with my daughter in 1969. That's a total of 41 years of lumpy bumness. Every so often, the things would swell up and I'd spend days lying on my side on the sofa with a bag of frozen peas applied to the area. (And no, I didn't eat them afterwards, though someone else might have done!) Once, I was on my way to interview a rock star for the magazine I was working for. He was sending his chauffeur to pick me up from Reading station and I thought I would just pop to the loo first as pre-interview nerves had made me want to 'go'. Next thing I knew, I thought my period had started as the loo was suddenly full of blood. But it wasn't my period, it was the piles. Ugh! I waddled through the afternoon with my knickers stuffed with tissues, any idea of seducing the rock star killed stone dead. Over the last year, with my IBS getting worse, I have had the most evil pain and itching and in the end I visited my GP and told her I was at the end of my tether as the violent itching was waking me at night, and I was bleeding every day even though the lumps themselves weren't that big. Plus, the pain had spread forward so the entire area between back bottom and front bottom hurt like hell.
End of nasty details. The squeamish can continue reading now. So - the nurse called me in and instantly these two young medical students thrust their hands at me and introduced themselves. One was an olive-skinned Greek with dark, wavy hair, very attractive, and the other one was Italian, grinning and geeky. Let's call them Greek and Geek.
Greek was the spokesman for the two. He asked me a series of questions in a slow, unpractised manner while Geek listened and grinned. I think Greek had a better command of spoken English. Then suddenly the inner door burst open and there... gasp!... there stood the movie star specialist. Tall, ice blue eyes, Scandinavian fair hair, slight tan, even white teeth, firm handshake, he introduced himself as Oliver. Long ago, at a different hospital, I had encountered another handsome Oliver, but that's another story.
Oliver 2 said he'd talk to me in a few minutes, and I was sent back outside. Then, bang on my appointment time, to the minute, I went back in for the actual examination. Now, ages ago, I had had the best looking dentist in the world, an Aussie called Brett Elliott. I never needed an injection, just sinking into the ocean of his navy blue eyes and imagining him seducing me on the beach was enough. Unfortunately, I couldn't gaze into Dr Oliver's steely blue ones as my third eye is in the middle of my forehead and not up my Khyber Pass!
With Greek and Geek peering intently at my nethers, Dr Moviestar Oliver stuck up his speculum as I groaned unromantic 'ouches'. Once I was dressed again, I sat opposite him, bathing in his good looks as he asked, "Has anyone ever suggested operating?" I answered, "When I had my hysterectomy done, the surgeon said they were planning to remove them but the op had complications so they didn't have time."
"Huh!" snorted Dr Oliver. "You don't want to let a gynaecologist anywhere near your piles." A touch of professional jealousy, perhaps?
The upshot is that he's putting me in for day surgery. He said it mightn't solve all the problems but at least things should improve. "You'll have a very sore bottom for a few days," he warned. Well, what's new? He was brisk, sharp and informative, and delivered a set of instructions with a steady gaze and a twitch of a grin. No toilet paper, just wet wipes from now on (which I use most of the time anyway), no soap or bath oil, only cotton knickers (never wear any other kind unless I'm on a hot date) and... I'm sure there was something else. Oh, what was it? All I can think about is that golden hair and those ravishing blue eyes. Staring up bottoms all day... what a waste!
As I turned to go, I thanked Dr Oliver and wished Greek and Geek good luck in their exams. As the nurse filled my hands with forms to take to the day surgery admissions desk, I said, "That doctor was just great." I meant his professional approach but she blushed. I think she had a little crush. Or maybe she was embarrassed by me, an oldi(ish) woman fancying a doctor. I think I feel a medical Mills & Boon coming on.
PS: I once had a very funny experience whilst being examined by a gynaecologist. There I was, feet in the stirrups, knees up and feeling the breeze up, when the male gynae (why are you never examined by a female one?) said, "I can see that you play the guitar."
With as much wit as I could muster whilst in such an embarrassing position, I shot back, "Why? Have you found my missing plectrum?" He laughed and explained that he played the guitar, too, so he'd noticed that I had long fingernails on one hand, and short ones on the other, the sure sign of a guitar player. I laughed about that for ages.
The only joke I could have come up with today was that corny old one about the man who accidentally sat on a circular saw. "It sliced off my - " He paused, trying to think of a polite word. "Rectum?" his comic partner enquired, to which the first comedian replied, "Well, it didn't do 'em much good!"