Humping and Smearing

It is Wednesday. Hump day is what they call it. I know this is meant to be about breaking the back of the week in terms of working days, etc, and we should all feel a bit dancey dancey about it, but it always seems more than slightly euphemistic to me, and yet naive. After all, Wednesday shagging?

Not likely.

To be fair, with lots of children in the house, no day is a good day for euphemisms any more. I might as well just put a large sign over the bedroom door saying: ‘The Psychiatrist is In’ and await my fate, rather than my long, languorous seduction.

As for the bathrooms, I am thinking of just wrenching the doors off altogether and fitting glass viewing panels and a megaphone.

Nothing is sacred. Nothing.

This morning the children are united in their attempts to be utterly useless. Oscar, apparently, has entirely run out of school jumpers, and Tilly has run out of shirts. This is despite the fact that I am on top of the endless battle with the washing and they have at least four of said item each. They have been wandering dolefully round, looking in the fridge, and under the beds and in the shoe cupboard, shaking their heads sorrowfully.

When it is pointed out to them that there is a real likelihood that a sibling might have inadvertently taken said item of clothing they look at me in dull amazement as if I have announced that their uniforms have joined forces and run away to the Limpopo. When it eventually transpires that Tallulah is hoarding all the clothing, it is a revelation. Including to Tallulah, who is far too busy tracking clumps of mud up and down the hall to worry about the fact that she has eighteen hundred weight of school clothing in her room.

To be scrupulously fair, I am also being useless because I have still not booked my looming smear test. I have a long track record of smear test avoidance, and knowing my penchant for putting things off, I have very carefully put the reminder letter in the centre of my desk every day. I have then just as carefully worked around it in an orderly fashion singing: ‘La la la. I can’t see you,’ and sticking eyepatches over both eyes.

I know that it is very important, and good for my health, and it might save my life, and it will make me feel virtuous and like Mother Teresa incarnate when I have finally done it, but urgh. Urgh. URGH. Why must it be so horrible?

Firstly, it is bloody freezing. Hump day or no hump day, the likelihood of me removing any items of clothing voluntarily in this weather are slim to none. I think fondly of the olden days where people would be rubbed all over with goose grease, wrapped in brown paper and then stitched into their clothing for the duration of the winter, simply adding extra layers, and probably shoving some straw down their vests if things got really parky. In extremis one could always light a small fire in the rim of a greasy, felt peasant’s cap for extra warmth.

At this stage, all of this seems rather wonderful as I shiver through the morning ablutions, and the children measure goose bumps with rulers in the way that Adrian Mole used to measure his manly appendage. I am certainly not going to strip off for some nurse who smells faintly of Dettol and rubber and who wants to stick a freezing cold speculum up my newly steamed hoo ha.

Secondly I hate that thing (well I hate all of it, but particularly that thing) where they tell you to make like your legs are doing breast stroke and then ‘flop them down at the side of you and RELAX.’ Right. Because that’s how we normally relax in this house. It’s why the sofas have to be so massive, because we’re all poking each other with our bent knees and our Queen Anne style legs.

I will not go into the thirdly, which will be a long, and oft repeated by me rant about the nature of speculums and their marked similarity to the torture instruments favoured by the exponents of the Spanish Inquisition, but needless to say, no matter how chilled out I might be feeling, the thought of someone looming over me brandishing one that they are about to ferret about in my nether regions with is not conducive to happy thoughts. Relaxation is definitely off on that day.

So, instead of calling the Dr’s surgery today I have opted to volunteer to help invigilate a mock SATS test at Oscar’s school, which just shows the strength of my feeling about people poking around in my under crackers, hump day or no hump day.

10 responses to “Humping and Smearing

  1. Not sure of how often your GP/Gyn suggests a smear, but recommendations have changed to advise less frequent screening, especially in the low-risk, in order to avoid false positives. (e.g http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/03/14/new-guidelines-advise-less-frequent-pap-smears/) Not that I’m aiding and abetting your avoidance, or anything 😉

  2. Either what Sonya says ….. or I could nag you on a daily basis…..your choice..x

  3. The first time I heard hump day, I thought it was rude as well. Someone posted it on Facebook and I responded “It’s WHAT day?!”

    In Germany they make you sit in a chair with weird leg holder thingies to keep your legs up in the air. It’s most awkward and not even vaguely relaxing.

  4. Be warned, the last time I went (no need to go anymore, too old, hurrah!) they had stopped using the wooden lollipop sticks and were wielding large plastic jobbies, just to add to the junk in landfill.

  5. I get a phone call from someone at the local medical centre when it’s time for my smear. It’s much harder to put it off when they are asking you when you want to make an appointment, which is probably their cunning plan.

  6. I hate those cunning plans

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