Incongruity of Life

After an intense chat with the radiographer over the phone, I managed to get an earlier appointment. The radiographer was keen to get me to drop everything, cancel work and race over there for a mammogram, as they had 'spotted' something. Whilst this was worrying, I felt that missing out on the few pence I was due to earn today was unnecessary and somewhat overkill for what would probably turn out to be a badly developed X-ray plate.

I own, what I generously refer to as a 'comedy bosom'. My chest is somewhat over-developed. It reminds me of pictures in gutter-press housewife magazines where some greasy-haired slapper is shown, with her breasts hanging over her waistband, under a caption "My Boobs Ruined My Life!". Occasionally, I have thought about breast reduction surgery, after all, it would be nice to wear clothes that don't hang off me like dust-sheets. I don't think I ever will opt for surgery, though, even if I could afford it. It leaves a scar, they often grow back to the same size within a year or two and anyway, I'm loathe to change anything I was born with, even if they are incongruously large. The thought of the 'something' they had spotted leading to a mastectomy naturally crossed my mind. When I toyed with the idea of surgery, I really hadn't thought about going for a lop-sided look.

Mammograms are not the most graceful of experiences. Someone cheerfully manhandles your boobs onto a freezing cold shelf, whilst chatting about the weather. The corner of the shelf is shoved painfully into your armpit (just relax your shoulders!) and then your boob is flattened by a perspex tray. I'm sure the whole machine is on loan from the Dungeon at the Tower of London. To add to that, each picture is marked on your skin with a felt tip pen, so you end up looking as though you are wearing a see-through polka-dot bikini.

Thankfully everything appears to be normal and all the squishing and flattening confirmed I'm going to live. When I told my kids what it was like they thought it was hilarious. My son in particular was gleeful about never having to have such a thing done, until I explained the procedure for testing men for prostate cancer. I've heard Pokemon is a Rastafarian proctologist. And yes, Saskia, they do wear gloves.