Clap! Clap! Clap!

It appears I may have caught more from the lovely Tim than just a cold. Althought I have no symptoms, the dear boy seems most worried that he's not actually got over his Gonorrhea, and that I should report myself to the Clap Shop sharpish for the scrape and jab.

It all was all rather jolly really, helped no end by the waiting room being full of enormously shifty men watching daytime TV (Terry and Gabby really do have chemistry, don't they?).

I found myself switching into my breeziest mood - being jolly, reassuring, and even risking the odd encouraging smile at my fellow inmates (most of whom were disappointingly unnatractive).

For my first ever visit it went rather well, although, during one briefing session, I did feel like such a trollop:

NICE LADY: "How many male sexual partners have you had?"

ME: "In total?"

NICE LADY: "Yes."

ME: "Really? Gosh. Well…. Um…"

NICE LADY: (encouragingly) "You can estimate, if you want."

ME: (hopeful) "To the nearest hundred?"

NICE LADY: (patiently) "How about just over the last six months, then?"

I'd like to say I was terribly brave. But not really.

I merely winced during the blood tests, and tutted during the Hep A, B, and Gonorrhea jabs.

My only comment after a swab was collected from somewhere Rather Unsusual was "that's an extraordinary sensation, isn't it?" to which the female nurse merely shrugged and showed me the swabs they use for smear tests - they look like balsa-wood spanners. So glad I don't own a cervix.

My downfall was during what Lee assured me was really called The Anal Probe. The Doctor was an extremely jolly fellow, and for some reason insisted on showing me the Instruments of Torture before pottering off to do some exploring. When I started whinnying like a pony he suddenly looked up:

"Ah yes - there is some inflammation.... here (jab! whimper!).... Probably nothing to worry about.. (jab! whimper!) ... but it's probably causing you some discomfort... (jab! whimper!)... I'm sure we'll see what it is when we examine the cultures... (prod! jab! whimper!)... although, you know, this is a terribly inefficient place to gather material from (prod! jab! scrape!)... often worthless (weird, wiggling sensation that, frankly, i wouldn't recommend or be able to describe).. anyway..."

Frankly, it felt like he was putting up shelves in there.