Mammogram

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.

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