I may well give the impression of being a thorough-going bawd, a rude and raucous little number whose spiritual twin is Fanny Hill and whose Sensitivity Quotient is in single figures – but impressions can be misleading! Though my humour is often a tad fundamental (!), the very keister of wit, clever clunge, reprehensibly-wrought rusty dusty, rude rass, it is just an impression…
Time to tinker with, and trounce, another taboo, methinks!
So, you will, I am quite sure, be completely cognizant of the fact that I have hatched a sprog, albeit somewhat later than most mamas. The pregnancy went very smoothly, though some doctors frowned, chewed their metaphorical moustaches and opined that, due to my advanced age (virtual Cronehood in their eyes), there was a significant chance of Down Syndrome (in the foetus, you understand; I already knew that I wasn’t afflicted) and that a needle in the womb was worth two in the topiary.
Well, I wasn’t having any part of that little lot: Opted, instead, for the much gentler Nuchal Fold Screening, a quick attack of Medical Vampirism to test for likelihood and, frankly, the knowledge that I’d love the little blighter irrespective. As I did, and have continued to do.
As it transpired (possibly in Transylvania – metaphorically: Honest to God, some of the medics I came across lacked only the reversible black/red cape and fangs to be dead ringers for the Count himself!), my blood suggested that my small uterine stowaway had a 1:2,500 chance of abnormality – and that was more than good enough for me.
So it was that I heaved and hoed, hollered, and f***ing hurt and, on that November night, finally passed what felt like a brace of ocean-going liners, but was, in fact, my beloved offspring.
What they don’t tell you, or maybe I blanked it out through sheer horror, is the effects of childbirth upon – er, how can I express this delicately? – your Voiding Mechanism. Ye gods! For a week, or more, I was convinced – and I mean totally certain, no room for error! – that every period spent upon the Porcelain Throne would result in the jettisoning of my entire set of internal organs which, at that stage, I envisaged as bagged giblets, a la festive turkey, just waiting to be hoicked out by the more gentle intestinal work-out! Accompanied, of course, by slaughter-house volumes of blood and gore. This, my dears, is what a vivid imagination will do for you.
I won’t get any more graphic than that: There may well be children in the ‘audience’ or breakfast in the offing…
To cut to the chase, amidst cries of, ‘Oh, get ON with it!’ (which should twitch a grimacing smile from my Sistren and Brethren in Shadow of the Tor, unless they’ve all fainted by this point!), I have become afflicted by the Ol’ Farmer Gileses!
We laugh about them, don’t we? They become the butt (sorry: couldn’t resist!) of many a bantering bout of bestial humour. But, and no more arsing around, they are a pain in the bum in real life. What with the stinging, the infuriating itching – which makes the sufferer want to reach for a bidet of ice-cubes or a Surface-to-Air Missile (and blow the little fuckers into the middle of next week) – and the feeling of being a Below-the-Belt Freak, a Posterial Pariah; the terror that no man will ever want one sexually again (not that, after passing a small continent vaginally, one has even the remotest interest in the pleasures of the groin! I would as soon have hysterectomised myself with a rusty coat hook, quite honestly!) and, well, yada yada yada, I have completely lost control of this sentence!
Yesterday – convinced I was aflame down Yond and possessed by ever-more lurid images of Farmers the size of cantaloupes; needing a wheelbarrow to carry the bloody things and so forth – I high-tailed it down to the Health Centre and asked to commune with a doctor.
The male doc I saw was a jolly soul – Thank Goddess: I think the lugubrious variety would have had me heading for the hills! – and, chaperone in situ, he instructed me to divest myself of my lower garments and, in a manner of speaking, spread ’em!
I have to say that this kind of examination is a decidedly over-rated pleasure, but I kept up a stream of witty repartee (not easy when the glove comes out and swings your way!) which, to my slight shame, included a breezy, ‘Always good to get to the bottom of things, what?!’ as I writhed upon the deuced uncomfortable gurney.
The doctor burst out laughing anyway. I often seem to have this effect upon trained medics. To my relief, he found nothing untoward – though quite what I was expecting, I am not 100% sure: A little known tribe up there? A herd of goats? The Missing Link?
Light with relief, and armed with a prescription for some soothing balm or another, I waddled out. The night before, I would have been all-too-happy if said ointment had included Hydrochloric Acid, or similar; but now, whistling a merry snatch from ‘The Pirates of Penzance‘ (‘I am the Pirate King…’ for those who give a toss either way!), I wanted gentle and caring and painfree!
Any old how, this problem is very common amongst humans generally – and post-childbirth women particularly – but it is not something many admit to or discuss. Those of you who have read ‘Come Laughing!’ will be aware that it includes a full and frank chapter on IUD insertion and an even fuller and more graphic discussion upon the relative merits of the Roundhead versus the Cavalier when it comes to the Turgid Todger. So, today’s little ‘talk’ should not come as any surprise!