I arrive on time at the hospital and give my letter to the receptionist who is in her late 40s and about 10 stone over weight. She is slumped in her chair with the greasiest hair I’ve ever seen draped over the back. She didn’t bother to look up as I slid the letter into her greasy hand which any Russian shot-putter would have been proud of. She muttered something about me taking a seat.
Another, much younger, receptionist joined her as she started muttering in a high pitched voice that she was worried. Apparently she had just read on Snapchat something about this Coronavirus affecting the economy and how we should all be worried over it. So the older, Miss Trunchbull lookalike, asked her newly arrived friend, June, what the economy was.
June replied, “OMG fancy asking me, I haven’t got a clue!”
At this point a nurse enters the fray and Miss Trunchbull asks, “Hey Dawn, do you know what the economy is?”
“Errrr, no, is this a trick question?” asks Dawn.
I suddenly realise that these people worked for the NHS. These were the people whose hands I was putting my life into. I had the urge to smash my own teeth in with a toffee hammer at this point.
A short while later the receptionist came over and asked me to sign the consent form for the operation. I did think twice before actually committing pen to paper but decided that the waiting list is a joke, I can hardly refuse after waiting months for the operation in the first place.
After I have signed the form, I am escorted into the changing rooms to take my clothes off. I was wearing my rather fashionable “Birko” designer jeans with torn knees, which is all the fashion these days, along with a pair of big, heavy Timberland boots. The nurse tells me it is okay to leave my shoes and socks on as I change into the hospital gown. The nurse then returned and escorted me down the corridor with me in their gown and my huge Timberland boots. I felt a right knobhead and must have looked like Max Wall doing his funny walk!
So off I walk to the theatre. Every other hospital in the world have porters who wheel you into the operating theatre on a trolley but for some reason at Clatterbridge they make you walk doing an impression of Max Wall’s Professor Wallofski.
As I am lying on the operating table the surgeon shows me the instruments he will be using for my little procedure. I was thinking of foregoing the anaesthetic and just passing out when I saw the size of them – Holy shit, they are massive!
Seeing the look on my face, he tells me not to worry as women are quite flexible in the genital area and with a little manipulation the instruments will fit quite snuggly. I thought to myself that there is “flexible” and then there is a “wizard’s sleeve”!
So the result of my little excursion to Clatterbridge is that I am still pissing through a straw. I am to be seen again in four months to see what steps can be taken in the continuing saga of Chimpton’s extremities.
I think I will leave the Timberlands at home for the next appointment, though!