Brummie Broad

Consider this. If a really hairy man – say, a Big Foot lookalike (and God knows there's a few of those around) – walked into a chemist and bought a load of shaving equipment, nobody would bat an eyelid. So how come, when I buy a load of laydees stuff, I’m treated like some kind of leper.

Take today, for instance, although this is but one of many similar situations I’ve encountered. I went into the chemist and bought two lots of towels and a bulk box of tampons (I like to be prepared). As I walked passed other customers, they all looked at me as if I was an unexploded bomb. I didn’t imagine this, they looked just like those spaghetti western films where the baddies are eyeing up the goodies just before the goodies shoot the shit out of them, sort of squinty eyed and suspicious (hormonal woman in the vicinity, brace yerselves lads!).

I get to the counter and there’s a man serving (groan). Reactions with male assistants vary, but they fall into three main categories:

The young bloke: looks at the products as he rings them up but studiously avoids looking at me because I’m having a period and he doesn’t like to think about stuff like that. Keeps his chin firmly buried in his chest, sometimes blushes in embarrassment at having to handle t

he stuff. His (probably first) encounter with a girlfriend or wife is going to come as a real shock to him.

The chest-beating bloke: positively refuses to have anything to do with laydees stuff and walks off, muttering something about finding a female assistant to help me. This has happened to me twice, and both times I’ve been left standing there until I call across to another assistant, “I was being served, but the assistant walked off, in disgust, I think.” These are the types that clearly think I should be accompanied by someone ringing and bell and bellowing Unclean! Unclean! These are the types that should be made to work exclusively in the women’s toiletries department until they’ve been desensitised.

The married bloke: seen it all, doesn’t faze him in the slightest. Perfectly comfortable shouting across the shop, “Aren’t these 50 pack of ultra-heavy Tampax on special offer at the moment, Mildred?” whilst waving box in the air for all to see.

I’ve only had one male assistant who acted in outright horror. I actually heard him gasp out loud when I stood in front of him at the counter. As I emptied my basket, his eyes widened at the first sight of a bright orange Kotex packet. They widened some more when I put down a bright purple packet. They were positively bulging when I heaved a box of tampons onto the counter, and he visibly stiffened when I put down Nurofen, a bottle of iron tablets and some baby wipes. His embarrassment was so excruciating I was worried I’d have to perform some kind of medical procedure on him.

And on the subject of sanitary packaging, it’s not subtle, is it. Why do they make packaging in bright orange or yellow or fluorescent purple with SUPER splattered all over it in big letters. It’s not as if we’ll be enticed by the colour (oh, there’s my usual brand but I quite fancy this lurid green packaging with the butterfly on it, so pwetty – all I’m bothered about is the ‘strength’ and the price). Surely grey or black packaging with tiny writing proclaiming them to be Tampax or Kotex would be better - after all, they sell condoms in sophisticated boxes you wouldn’t be averse to bringing out at a dinner party, but sanitary packets just screams to the world woman on a period. Unless, of course, they’re the cheap shop-brand items in white packets which, trust me, aren’t worth the 23p (unless you particularly enjoy doing mathematical equations in order to position the slightly padded postage stamp in exactly the right place).

First off, “Valu pak” might suggest you’re a bit of a cheapskate in the old sanitary department, and could it be any more ‘in your face’?

“Improved adhesive” means you’ll never be able to tear them off your knickers without the use of turps.

“To Guard Against Emergencies” [emergencies? Is that what they used to call them … “Ooooh, I’m having an emergency, quick, get some Kotex to guard me!”]. Kotex are of great importance in the toilet essentials of modern women. They are large [how large? Like duvet size?], perfectly absorbent, sanitary pads, which make possible a new, comfortable [comfortable? Pah! Get a man to wear one for 7 days and ask how comfortable he is], sanitary habit [habit? Can you book into a detox programme to try and cure you of it – “I appear to have a sanitary habit, can you help me?”]. Nothing to launder and far superior to old fashioned bulky birdseye [birdseye? They previously used birds eyes?].

Kotex are inexpensive [the hell] – cheap enough to throw away [as opposed to ‘recycling’ them?] and easy to dispose of [assuming you have easy access to a plunger or a plumber if you accidentally put one down the toilet]. Directions of disposing of Kotex instantly and conveniently are enclosed in every box [presumably, find a bag, force it into sanitary box if there is one, or carry it round in your bag all day until you get home]. For the first time women now can ask for sanitary pads with no more unwelcome counter conversation that is occasioned in the purchase of hair nets of soap [Really? Have the advertisers never been to a chemist to buy them?]

Oh look at us, we’re so happy, so chilled, so thin. We’re on a period and we don’t care because we’re using lovely, comfortable sanitary towels and we never get period pains or bloat like a balloon or anything nasty like that. Just so happy. Really, really happy.

“I’m bloated and have cramps and I’ve been to the boggin’ bog 5 times this morning and my boss noticed and asked me if I had a problem and I screamed ‘YES! I have a problem, I’m on a bloody period, have you got a problem with that?’ And he just walked off and that totally pisses me off, I mean why do men have to be so bloody insensitive? I wanna come back as a man, I really do, I can’t be arsed with this crap any more. And if I were a man I wouldn’t bloody ask a woman every bloody time she dares open her mouth if she’s perhaps a bit bloody hormonal!”

HE grits his teeth and puts on a brave face whilst impaling the ski instructor in the snow with frustration.

When I was recently on holiday, every time I stumbled out of the sea it was usually with my head between my legs to see if I’d ‘leaked’. ‘Shark bait’ was also at the forefront of my mind.

My ideal sanitary advertisement would be: “Buy one, it’s all you’ll need.” Of course, it would probably be the size of a rolled up pillow which might be a bit problematic. Hmm, okay, perfect sanitary advertisement, “Take this pill and never have to worry about those nasty monthly periods again, ever.” Yeah, that’s the one, I’d go for that.

Let’s be honest, I can’t be the only one who finds it embarrassing to go to the loo at work at ‘that time of month’. Firstly, there’s the standing up from your desk aspect. I’m not sure how to put this delicately, so I won’t. You stand up from your chair, where you’ve probably been sitting for a couple of hours typing, and there’s … erm … a ‘bit of a rush’ down below. You snatch up your bag praying the ultra-mega-strength thing you’re wearing won’t ‘let you down’, and sort of shuffle in a legs-together kind of motion towards the nearest Ladies trying to look as nonchalant as possible (whistling at this point only draws attention, I’ve found).

Picking up the bag to start with announces to all and sundry that you’re on a period, but some people spot the bag you’re trying to hide under your jumper and shout, “Oh, are you going home early?” (how I’d love to reply, “No, actually I’m going to change my sanitary towel” just to see what their reaction would be).

You get to the toilet, enter the stall, and do one of two things. If the loos are empty, you get on with it. If there’s someone else in another stall, I tend to wait as I (masochistically) tend to keep my items in the crinkliest plastic bag on the planet, and those pull-off strips can be pretty noisy when you’re trying to be discrete too. If the loo is busy I can be sitting there, inspecting my nails and resting my head against the wall, for up to 30 minutes – I keep a magazine in my crinkly bag for just such occasions.

Once the ‘empty’ cardboard tube fell out of my hand and rolled underneath the partition into the next stall. There were terrifying seconds as I considered what to do:

(a) quickly race round with my knickers down to retrieve it before anyone came in, risking being sued for indecent exposure and trauma if I was caught;

(b) pull up my knickers and trousers, wasting valuable time, during which someone could come in and spot the used tube and feminine paraphernalia scattered in my cubicle; or

(c) pull up my knickers and trousers and flush the toilet in case anyone came in, leaving the tube stranded and exposed for rather a long time.

There were some sanitary towels advertised on tv a while ago that came with a nifty baby wipe with each individual towel.

I was hysterical with laughter and turned to my partner. “A baby wipe isn’t what you need," I cried, "Its six strong firemen with a fire hose, that's what you need.”

I’m not a prude in the bedroom. I quite like watching pornographic movies, and I suspect a lot of women do. They always come from ‘some bloke at work’ that your partner/boyfriend/husband knows (you never get women saying, “Ooooh, I’ve got this great Ben Dover DVD I could copy for you,” do you?)

Anyway, partner had ‘acquired’ a few DVDs and we started watching one. It was pretty tame stuff and I soon got bored with it. 20 minutes in (struggling not to fall asleep and thinking about what to plant in the garden next year) I suddenly found something interesting.

“Ooooh,” I said, “I wonder what lipstick she wears, it doesn’t seem to come off at all, does it?”

After a while my partner clocked that this was a duff film and said, “You’re bored with this, aren’t you?”

“Because you’ve twice said you like her nail varnish, and wondered out loud if you could get that bra at M&S.”

NOTE: A ‘boring’ porno film consists of actresses who’s hair and make-up is clearly retouched every five minutes or so (setting a standard us ‘real women’ could never hope to achieve), or (most annoying of all) actresses who cannot take their eyes off the camera, obviously thinking this is their big break (spare me).

I was sitting on the balcony of our holiday apartment, looking at the glistening sea and watching the sun go down over a mountain range. In the background, Barber’s Adagio for Strings was playing, and I sipped from a glass of whisky.

“It’s just all so lovely,” I said, pointing at the vista, “It’s brought tears to my eyes.”

“Well I’ve just come from the loo,” he said, “And that thing you left down the bowl must have brought a few tears to your eyes too.”

Took me ages to stop crying from laughter, by which time the ‘moment’ had long gone.

Has anyone seen the Canesten advert? Absolutely cracks me up every time I see it.

In the advert, this normal looking woman with a big smile on her face saunters into a chemist and calmly asks for Canesten. She's then seen leaving the shop, still with a carefree smile, popping a tablet into her mouth.

In reality, a dishevelled woman with a pained expressed would rush into the chemist with a hand clamped between her legs. She'd scream in a really high-pitched voice for Canesten ... and a very large bottle brush.

They've done it with Dove, lets see some realism with other feminine products (that'll be interesting!).

Hormone replacement patches: Woman rushes into chemist, violently pushing all other customers aside. Slams fists down on counter and shrieks, "Give me hormone replacement patches! Give them to me now! I swear to God if I don't get those patches in the next 10 seconds I'm going to cause some serious damage around here, do you hear me? Do you have any concept whatsoever what I'm going through right now!" Perhaps woman could be carrying a baseball bat or gun like Michael Douglas in Falling Down. Tagline (weary male voice): "Hormone replacement patches. Use them, 'cos we're tired of your shit."

Underarm deodorant: Pretty woman standing and humming in front of bathroom mirror. Frowns a little as she shaves her pits. Picks up deodorant bottle and smiles at it. Applies deodorant on newly shaved pits. Pretty face turns into expression of unmitigated horror as she starts jumping from foot to foot, screaming, "Farkin' hell!" Drop kicks bottle across bathroom, it smashes mirror. Cracked mirror gives view of woman bouncing out of the bathroom waving her arms in the air, still screaming. Tagline: "Deodorant. Takes off three layers of skin, but stops you smelling."

Hair dye: Harassed looking woman standing in front of bathroom mirror applying hair dye. It runs down her forehead, she snatches up white towel to wipe it away and frowns at the now stained towel as more hair dye streaks down her face. In the background the telephone and the doorbell rings, and a little boy runs up to her shouting, "Mom! I'm hungry!" She frantically tries to stop the hair dye running all down her face, getting more and more agitated. Tagline: "Hairdressers. Because you're so worth it."

Hair removal I: Terrified woman wearing a hospital gown stands in a clinical room holding a baseball bat in front of her as white-coated man tries to approach with a wax strip. In the background, from other rooms, comes the sound of wax strips being torn off and women screaming. Terrified woman shakes bat at man, exposes teeth, and hisses, "I told you! I've changed my mind! I don't want a bikini wax!" Tagline: "Waxing. It hurts. Don't do it." (advertising disposable razors, much easier, less pain).

Hair removal II: Woman in shower, struggling to wash long hair. Sound of clock ticking loudly. Uses shampoo. Rinses. Uses conditioner. Rinses. Hurries out of shower. Rushes to blow dry hair in front of mirror. Glances at clock on wall. Frowns. Brushes hair. Its all fuzzy. Messes with hair, tutting. Picks up tub of gel, runs it through hair. Brushes it again. Tuts. Glances at clock, gives barely restrained scream. Uses hair spray. Clock ticks louder. Tagline: "Shave it, it ain't worth the hassle." Shows pic of Sigourney Weaver. "Worked for her." (again advertising disposable razors!)

Sanitary ware (again!): Wild-haired woman struggles to chemist counter with piles of sanitary towel packets and boxes of Tampax in her arms. They spill all over counter. Man behind counter tuts and rolls eyes. Woman hisses at him with wild eyes, gets purse out of bag, money scatters everywhere. Woman throws herself across counter, screaming. Tagline: "Hysterectomy. It's an option." (advertising private clinic - believe me, if this advert were true, I'd be first in line at said clinic).

Slimming aids I: Normal size 16 woman sitting at table, morosely chewing on celery stick whilst staring at Kate Moss in a magazine and sighing. Glances over at treadmill machine in corner of room, sighs again. Glances at Slimfast on table, sighs. Looks down at self, sighs. Dawn French and Fern Britton suddenly run up to her, Fern snatches up magazine and throws it over shoulder, Dawn pulls woman out of seat and smacks celery out of her hand. They lead stunned-looking woman out of room, arms around her shoulders: Fern says, "Now what we're going to do is give you a good makeover to make the most of your curvaceous assets." Dawn says, "Bugger the diet, let's go have some fun." Tagline: "Because life's too short." Cut to shot of three women laughing and having fun in a restaurant, along with Roseanne Barr (who just happened to be in the area) the marvellous Caroline Quentin and the sublime Jo Brand, all surrounded by fascinated men. Close up of original woman putting forkful of food in mouth. In the background a man says, "No wonder they're fat!" A moment of complete silence, then sound of a hard smack and a man crying "Ouch!" (just a feel-good advert for women, sponsored by Evans clothes shop).

Slimming aids II: Woman sitting at kitchen table eating a slice of gateau and reading. Husband comes into kitchen with supermarket carrier bag. He says, "I've got you a present." Woman looks excited. Husband pulls out tin of Slimfast. Woman's face drops. Husband, flustered but determined, says, "I just thought you could do with losing a bit of weight, that's all." Woman stands up, picks up plate with gateau, pushes it into husband's face. Reaches behind him for wall phone, dials, says, "Jake, yes it's me. Do you still think I'm the hottest thing on two legs? Good. Take me to dinner." Tagline: "Crap & Crapper Divorce Lawyers. We're here if you need us."

Send me more suggestions and I'll send them to advertising companies. Advertising companies, get in touch and we'll negotiate a price.

Words fail me, they really do. I mean, ordinary towels/liners are hard pushed to stay in a straight line in normal knickers without bunching up, trying to hide between your bum cheeks or twisting into an uncomfortable 45 degree angle, what chance to thong towels have? (Can you imagine, woman walking down middle of office, something drops on floor, she tuts and says, "Ooops, sanitary towel fell out again.")

I walk into the medical room like a stiff marionette, my jaw set, my teeth clenched, my lower extremities bunched up in a tight mass of terror somewhere around my shoulder blades. The nurse is all jolly and chatty whilst I sit there thinking, “Oh God! I’d rather be anywhere else but here.”

She tells me in a conversational tone to take off my knickers and make like a dissected frog on a table. Honestly, could anything be more undignified than lying on a table half naked with your legs wide open and your pink bits exposed? I pray another patient doesn’t come wandering in and start screaming.

And it’s only when I’m lying on the table, staring at the cracks in the ceiling and contemplating the meaning of life, that I start to have concerns.

When was the last time I shaved my legs? Is the nurse going to take one look at them and think she’s found the missing link? Do I look like a mammoth or a shire horse? Will she have to hack her way between them using a scythe to get at the pink bits?

Should I have shaved the pubic area, or at least trimmed it to allow easier access? How will my private area compare to other women’s areas, will the nurse take one look at mine and gasp out loud in horror? Please don’t let me fart, not now.

“Now just relax,” the nurse says, coming at me with a speculum roughly the size of two spades.

Who invented the speculum? A man, no doubt about it – it’s purely practical with no thought to aesthetics or comfort. Could they not make it a bit smaller, a bit less metallic, a bit less terrifying – something in pink plastic, perhaps, the size of an apple corer?

Sometimes they put it in warm water so you’re less apt to go into an epileptic shock caused by a sudden drop in body temperature, but then there’s the worry that they’ve overdone it and put it in hot water and are liable to cauterize your flappy bits forever more.

And why does it have to be so big? Sure, I’ve had 8 pound babies with heads the size of bowling balls come down the chute, but not recently. Can’t they have speculums of varying sizes, not ‘one size fits all’?

Relax my arse. I’m spreadeagled like a hooker on a rock hard table with some medieval instrument of torture being shoved up me, I doubt many women lie there reading the newspaper or holding a telephone conversation (“Oh, just a minute, I’m having a smear test ... okay, tell me the profit range and forecast figures.”).

Some nurses are like Sumo wrestlers at this point, plunging like they’re trying to unblock a drain. Many a time I’ve wanted to scream, “Get that bloody thing out of me and fuck right off, bitch!” Others are really ‘delicate’, gently fiddling around and prolonging the agony for eons – I feel like grabbing the bloody speculum and putting it in myself just to get it over with. Sometimes there’s ‘hair pulling’.

More ceiling staring, more thinking about sandy beaches and nice things, think nice thoughts. There’s an ominous squeak as the formerly compacted vagina is opened wide enough to allow a juggernaut ample room to park, and my cervix, unaccustomed to daylight and fresh air, tries to relocate behind my larynx.

“This won’t take a minute,” says the jolly nurse (whilst I resist the urge to kick her in the teeth).

It takes forever. Jesus Christ, can’t she find what she’s looking for? How difficult can it be to locate a cervix and rub a cotton bud over it? Come on!

Suddenly (almost unexpectedly, I’ve been lying there that long) it’s over. There’s a squeak, my vagina is released (hopefully not accompanied by a fanny fart), the speculum removed, and all is well with the world again.

I’m off the table in a millisecond, trying to untangle my kickers and make myself modest again. The nurse merrily chatters away but I’m not listening. I’m dressed (although nothing feels comfortable), I have my bag, I am so outta there.

Phew, four years until the next one, by which time they’ve hopefully developed something a bit more humane, or at least offer anaesthetic.

Which reminds me of a woman’s visit for a smear test which I’m sure you’ve all heard about but it well worth a repeat:

“I was due later in the week for an appointment with the gynaecologist. Early one morning I received a call from the doctor's office to tell me that I had been rescheduled for early that morning at 9:30 a.m. I had only just packed everyone off to work and school, and it was already round 8:45 a.m. The trip to his office took about 35 minutes, so I didn't have any time to spare.

As most women do, I like to take a little extra effort over hygiene when making such visits, but this time I wasn't going to be able to make the full effort. So I rushed upstairs, threw off my dressing gown, wet the washcloth that was sitting next to the sink, and gave myself a quick wash in "that area" to make sure I was at least presentable.

I threw the washcloth in the clothes basket, donned some clothes, hopped in the car and raced to my appointment. I was in the waiting room only a few minutes when I was called in. Knowing the procedure, as I'm sure you do, I hopped up on the table, looked over at the other side of the room and pretended that I was in Paris or some other place a million miles away. I was a little surprised when the doctor said, "My, we have made an extra effort this morning, haven't we?" but I didn't respond. When the appointment was over, I heaved a sigh of relief and went home. Glitter Graphic: 62974650cdc309f31f3e1a812c170da7.gif

Glitter Graphic: 62974650cdc309f31f3e1a812c170da7.gif

The rest of the day was normal... some shopping, cleaning, cooking, etc. After school when my six-year-old daughter was playing, she called out from the bathroom, "Mum, where's my washcloth?" I told her to get another one from the cupboard. She replied, "No, I need the one that was here by the sink. It has my glitter and sparkles in it.”

Why, when you get them out the packet, are tights six inches long, even if you've specifically bought large/tall/Amazonian size. Dragging them up my legs is like indulging in a workout at the gym. They then struggle to return to their original size throughout the day so the gusset ends up around my knees and I end walking around like a constipated penguin.

I've lost count of the number of times I've strutted round the office, strutted round town, then got home and discovered that, far from looking like a stockinged goddess, I look more like Nora Batty. You either can't get them up, or can't keep them up. Tsk.

How on earth did Robin Hood cope? ("Okay, hand over your money so I can give it to the poor ... oh, hang on, just gotta pull my tights up, damn things.")

Scenario 1: Jack Bauer walks across CTU office, scowling. Chloe walks passed and says, "Hi Jack, how you doing?" Jack pulls out gun and shoots her, screaming, "For God's sake, can't you people just leave me alone! I'm having a farking bad day here!"

Scenario 2: Jack Bauer chases after baddies into a warehouse, where they turn and start shooting at him. Jack falls to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably, crying, "I just want to know where the bomb is, is that too much to ask sniff?"

Q: What's the difference between PMT and BSE?
A: One's mad cow's disease and the other's an agricultural problem.

First of all, what does PMT stand for. Pretty Miserable Time? Puts Men in Tension? (Prehistoric Monster Syndrome? – for the over-the-pond people).

I have to admit, I never really suffered from PMT. I used to get a mad craving for chocolate a couple of days before the Dreaded Event, but that’s about it. I was too laid-back and easy-going to indulge in all that hormonal stuff.

Then I hit my forties, and things changed. Oh boy, did they ever. Now, a couple of days before, I not only get a mad craving for chocolate, but also crisps and cakes and chips and (strangely) advocados and basically anything with a four-figure calorie intake. I’ve been known to leave the office mid-morning or mid-afternoon in search of the biggest cake I can find, and nothing and nobody can stop me.

I also can’t drink alcohol, which is a bit of a pain in the bum as I quite like drinking alcohol. It makes me incredibly bloated and tired for three whole days. Three! Enough to send you into a hormonal rage on its own, but the rage appears all on its own, alcohol deprived or not.

Hormonal rage, I used to think, idly and perhaps a bit smugly because I didn’t get it, what’s that all about then? Women who can’t control themselves? What tosh. Ha ha ha.

That was in the old days. When I was normal. When my hormonal rages hadn’t yet been stirred from their late development coma. Then, when it did stir, it arrived with a vengeance feeling quite pissed off at having been ignored for so long and was/is like a seething, mouth-frothing monster from hell.

PMT. That joyous time of month when you can Do Nothing Right. I forget things (like my own name – no, seriously, my own name). I drop things. I drop everything. And then I get angry with myself for being so clumsy and my long-suffering husband rushes to my assistance because he’s nice like that, and gets an earbashing for his trouble. “Can you stop breathing so loud!” I once spat to him, instantly adding, “Take no notice, I'm practising my Hormonal Bitch from Hell routine.” "You don't need to practice,” he drawled, “You've mastered it to perfection, darling."

From this
"Oh look at me, aren't I
gorgeous and happy and
normal. Oh isn't life good,
isn't life fabulous. Oh lucky
lucky me"

To this
"Don't touch me don't
come near me don't speak
to me I hate you I hate
everyone just leave me alone!"

It’s like an Out of Body Experience, it really is. I feel like I’ve been possessed by some demon intent on creating as much pandemonium as possible, a demon that takes over my life with the specific intention of making everybody hate me (the little bastard!).

I can see that I’m being utterly unreasonable and snappy and irritable and bloody cantankerous and illogical and unfair and bitchy and so unbelievably impatient, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. I have no control. None whatsoever. I spend all my time apologising for my crappy behaviour through gritted teeth as I struggle to regain control of my emotions and my own body. And then, of course, I get all sobby and start saying things like, “You still love me, don’t you?” or “You won’t leave me because I’m being such a cow, will you?” or, worse, “How can you stand me, I’m so horrible, leave now why you still have a chance, quick, run, run now.”

Husband is, fortunately, very understanding. He’ll say things like, “I understand you’re pre-menstrual.” Except he often gets it wrong and I’m not and that in itself can cause problems. As if I don’t have enough already!

My sister, who’s only 18 months younger than me, is also suffering the same affliction. She came to my house the other day after visiting the health food shop (where she’d gone up to the counter in desperation and cried, “What’s good for PMT?” in a really high-pitched, woman-on-the-edge type manner). She’d apparently bought the whole shop – pills, potions, nuts, fruit, capsules, powders and tinctures – and tipped it all out on my living room floor. I added by own tablets and capsules, and together we rifled through the mountain screaming, “Oh, have one of these, they’re supposed to be really good,” and “Kalms! Take these, they’re lifesavers.” Hubby sat on the sofa, too terrified to move amongst this seething gathering of hormonal harridans.

Do animals get PMT? Listen to this. Ah, soothing whale sounds, I hear you thinking.

Actually, not. Well, it is a whale, but it’s a hormonal whale suffering from PMT. That’s why whales are often found alone in the middle of oceans, because all the other whales are scared to death to go anywhere near it. The whale sound – far from soothing – is actually a lady whale screaming abuse at every other whale within a 700 mile radius. That’s a big radius. If we humans had the same scope, there’d be no women left on the planet.

That we survive is down to one thing, our ability to say Sorry. Repeatedly. Once the PMT monster has finally gone back in its filthy cave for another three weeks (and we vainly hope it'll never show its scowling, teeth-baring, eye-bulging face again)..

Colposcopy

If ever you have had a "dodgy" smear test - in fact, I'll start with another story - the smear test. I have, for my sins, a "wonky womb". This means that whenever I go for a smear, I have to tell the unsuspecting nurse that I need "the long one". How awful is that. I do not have a "big one" (as far as I am aware) but they can never find the neck of the womb. Where does it go? I always thought it would be just at the top - how foolish am I!!!!

Anyway, back to the colposcopy. If you get a dodgy smear test, off you are sent for a colposcopy. You get the reassuring nurse to start with who is so sickly sweet and nice you want to chuck. Then you are plopped into this dentist like chair and legs hoisted into stirrups.

Then the first time I had one, in trotted a pile of students. "Do you mind?" I was asked - "Of course not I replied". DON'T DO IT!!!!!

Next thing you know, there is a drop dead gorgeous doctor fiddling about between my legs. Out comes "the long one", then off he goes on his mission to find the neck of my womb. Sickly sweet nurse is gently tapping my arm trying to talk about the weather to distract me. Then she points me in the direction of the television screen and there in full glorious technicolour, is my fanny!!!! Magnified 6 times!!!! That must have been the most degrading thing ever. I have never seen hair like it!!!! Then you get to see the neck of your womb which closely resembles a donut! The drop dead gorgeous doctor then proceeds to prod neck of womb and put bits of dye on it!

Mind you, revenge was mine. Sickly sweet nurse decides to ask me what I do for a living. "I work for the Coroner" I reply. "SO DON'T LET ME DIE!!!!"

Hospital

Got a good tale of hospital for you - although I must admit it was a few years ago but have never forgotten it.

Had terrible pains in stomach, doc sent me to hospital, thought I had grumbling appendix (wasn't), decided to keep me in as might have to operate. First indignity was having to be shaved 'down below' - done by a junior nurse who had never done it before, still can't decide who was most embarrassed! Anyway, consultant comes round with his tribe following him, and there must have been about 10 of them. By this time I have been got ready for him, nightie up round my neck, no pants on (nurses made me take em off, still not sure why, think consultant got his jollies off by embarrassing women) and he stalks over to the bed, takes one look and says to the sister standing by my bed 'Oh, shaves does she' and then proceeds to draw all over my stomach, jabbing with his pen! I think I went bright red from my toes to the top of my head - with fury as well as embarrassment I might add.

The other thing they sent me for a barium meal x-ray, anyone ever had one of those? Not to be recommended! They made me take off my own nightie and put on one of those short little hospital gowns that only do up at the back of the neck and halfway down (again no pants, what is it about hospitals and pants?) but did give me one of those hole-y blankets to put round me. The porter came and wheeled me down the corridor to x-ray (this was the main corridor on the ground floor, right where everyone, and I mean everyone in the hospital, comes in and out). Anyway, gets my x-ray done and am sitting there for well over an hour, waiting for the porter to take me back and they come and tell me I have to go on my own, emergency, no porters available. You might know, the blanket has gone with the porter! There I am, left to myself, trotting back to the ward, up the main corridor, with one hand behind my back trying not to show my bare bum to all and sundry - impossible task! I get back to the ward and they all crack up laughing! Someone missed me coming in like little orphan annie so made me go back out the door and do it again. I got my own back though - no sooner had I got changed into a proper hospital nightie, sat down in a chair in the middle of the ward and promptly threw up all the barium stuff all over the nice clean floor!!!! Result!! You can tell this was a few years ago - the floor was clean!

Underarm woe (from someone who wants to be described as a "curious gay boy": - he's so fab!)

okay, there's one story I want to share: After my lesbian flatmate moved out she'd left some feminine 'stuff' in the bathroom cupboard. Now I have an extremely curious disposition, and two things I wanted to try out. 1. I have extremely high metabolism. As a result I perspire quite a Lot, especially under my arms. I've used loads of stuff to prevent it but nothing ever really works. Until I found some stuff that actually does so its all okay now. The thing is that I have to apply it for 3 days once every fortnight, and routine is not something I'm good at, so I've had the moments that my underarms are all patchy. Anyway, long story short, I thought that it would be an idea to use super absorbent panty liners and tape them to the under arm bits of my shirt and then I could perspire in peace and smell like Mountain Fresh at the same time. What I didn't bargain for is the underarm hair getting tangled in the absorbent weave and subsequent removal of shirt was agony. Also, 'Other Half' took a picture of me at party wearing said liners, silly me, in light shirt. Looked a right twat with white 'wings' showing through, like 80's style slipped shoulder pads. 2. Home bikini wax. 'Nuff said... Still, nice and smooth afterwards. But NEVER NEVER NEVER on the bollocks.[Awaiting pic with baited breath!!!! - Ed]

What stories do you have to tell? Email me and I'll add them to the page (completely anonymous, of course).