This is one of those Plogs that if you are a parent, sibling or a slightly squeamish friend, you may wish to look away now. I am going to discuss sex stuff, and if you're harbouring fantasies that I'm saving myself for marriage, further reading could leave you a little bit disappointed.
Last chance. Look away now.
Seriously. This Plog definitely falls into the "overshare" category. "Too much information!" you will squeal. And rightly so. But it's tough luck. You have been given your opportunity to flee. Flee!
OK. Staying? OK then.
So, a few weeks ago I went to the doctor. It was the time of year when I need to get my contraception reviewed - in my case the diaphragm. Yes, I know, that's very 1970s of me, but I'm not a massive fan of messing with my hormones, as I'm quite mardy enough already.
I hadn't been to this doctor before. I explained I just needed her to check the existing size still - ahem - fit OK and then prescribe a new one.
She looked perplexed. "I've never done that before," she said. "Not since my training."
"Oh," I said.
"We don't get many requests, you see."
"Right," I said.
"If you like, I could give it a go," she said.
Now, I try not to knock the NHS unnecessarily, but those aren't really the reassuring words you'd like to hear from your doctor. "No, you're all right," said I.
"You need to go to the Family Planning Clinic," said Doctor Give It A Go.
So I did. And to cut a long story short, they couldn't do it either because the NHS is shit. Anyone would think I had a toxic fanny.
Finally, the Family Planning Clinic managed to ascertain which size I needed (based on guesswork, mostly) and told me I had to go back to the doctor and tell her which size it was. Because they didn't have any in stock.
Cut to Friday. This Friday. And off I went to the doctor again. Lucky me, I got Doctor Give It A Go.
"Hi," I said, "I'm not sure if you remember me but we had a conversation about prescribing a diaphragm. I have the size you need to prescribe now if you could do that."
"Sure," she said. She asked me the size. I told her.
She then looked a bit panicked. "What make is it?" she asked.
"I don't know," I replied. "Honestly, I'm not sure branding is a large part of their strategy."
She flicked through a medical paperback on her desk. "It's just I need to prescribe a brand, you see."
"Well any will do. I don't have brand loyalty. So long as it keeps the babies away."
Ploggers, can you guess what she did next? This is totally true. She turned to her PC (which was totally visible to me), went to Internet Explorer, which had been minimised and Googled "diaphragm". She then read the Wikipedia entry, the Planned Parenthood (US) site and then said, "Sorry, I don't know."
She then hit back twice on her browser, which brought up the Google results of her previous search. I know know the patient before me had a haematoma. Which I'm not sure is a great advert for patient confidentiality. Though I have learned a lot about about the condition, so I guess that's good.
Then she gave me some great advice about putting olive oil in my ear which has now turned me completely deaf in my left ear.
I think I might leave that one for the private surgery near where I work to sort out.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Catatonic sleep
TheBloke (TM) and I occasionally like to go away for the weekend. We're like that. Hedonistic. The problem with going away is we have a Monty Cat who demands feeding twice a day. More if he thinks he can get away with it.
For longer stays, we're lucky to have friends and family who'll look after the pesky ginger furball, but when you're just going away for a night it barely seems worth it. So we invested in an autofeeder. This thing is pretty clever; you pop in the food, set the timer, and it springs open at the allotted time. It can hold two meals, so would be OK for a 24 hour period.
We tested out the autofeeder, to great success. Monty Cat wasn't fussy about eating out of it (we weren't especially surprised by this; he eats off the floor regularly, so a different-shaped dish wasn't likely to be a barrier to the greedy feline.) Then a genius thought struck:
Every Saturday and Sunday morning, Monty Cat will enter our room at 7.00, the same as he does every week day. He will miaow. Then he will start digging his claws into the carpet. And finally he will start biting our toes. Just to remind us that he is there and he would quite like to be fed, if it's no trouble to us. So one of us will blearily descend the stairs, feed the cat and then try - vainly - to get back to sleep.
But now we had an autofeeder! All our problems would be solved. Excitedly on Friday night, I filled the feeder with Monty food for the morning, and set the timer for 7 a.m.. I was going to get a cat-free lie-in. I was as excited as a new parent with the promise of an unbroken 8 hours' sleep.
Roll on 7 a.m. yesterday. "Miaow." Scratch, scratch, scratch. "Miaow." Scratch. "Fuck!"
(The "fuck" wasn't Monty Cat, but was TheBloke (TM) being awoken by having his toes gently nibbled.)
I worried the autofeeder hadn't worked, so went downstairs, with a joyful ginger bastard bouncing gleefully behind me. The autofeeder had worked fine, but the cat hadn't bothered to come downstairs. The cat's flowchart looks like this:
Step 1 - Wake up the humans. Step 2 - Get fed.
In his little cat brain, he had to achieve Step 1 before Step 2 could be realised. So I showed him where the food was. He ate. I thought, at least he'll work it out tomorrow.
He didn't. So now at 7 a.m. every weekend morning, I now show the cat where his food is.
Anyone want a cat?
For longer stays, we're lucky to have friends and family who'll look after the pesky ginger furball, but when you're just going away for a night it barely seems worth it. So we invested in an autofeeder. This thing is pretty clever; you pop in the food, set the timer, and it springs open at the allotted time. It can hold two meals, so would be OK for a 24 hour period.
We tested out the autofeeder, to great success. Monty Cat wasn't fussy about eating out of it (we weren't especially surprised by this; he eats off the floor regularly, so a different-shaped dish wasn't likely to be a barrier to the greedy feline.) Then a genius thought struck:
Every Saturday and Sunday morning, Monty Cat will enter our room at 7.00, the same as he does every week day. He will miaow. Then he will start digging his claws into the carpet. And finally he will start biting our toes. Just to remind us that he is there and he would quite like to be fed, if it's no trouble to us. So one of us will blearily descend the stairs, feed the cat and then try - vainly - to get back to sleep.
But now we had an autofeeder! All our problems would be solved. Excitedly on Friday night, I filled the feeder with Monty food for the morning, and set the timer for 7 a.m.. I was going to get a cat-free lie-in. I was as excited as a new parent with the promise of an unbroken 8 hours' sleep.
Roll on 7 a.m. yesterday. "Miaow." Scratch, scratch, scratch. "Miaow." Scratch. "Fuck!"
(The "fuck" wasn't Monty Cat, but was TheBloke (TM) being awoken by having his toes gently nibbled.)
I worried the autofeeder hadn't worked, so went downstairs, with a joyful ginger bastard bouncing gleefully behind me. The autofeeder had worked fine, but the cat hadn't bothered to come downstairs. The cat's flowchart looks like this:
Step 1 - Wake up the humans. Step 2 - Get fed.
In his little cat brain, he had to achieve Step 1 before Step 2 could be realised. So I showed him where the food was. He ate. I thought, at least he'll work it out tomorrow.
He didn't. So now at 7 a.m. every weekend morning, I now show the cat where his food is.
Sunday, January 09, 2011
Crabby
"I don't like the cinema," asserted Mrs Nunn.
"I know," I said. "You don't like the fact that other people rustle their sweet papers and that you can't pause the film whilst you get a cup of tea and go for a wee."
"Also, you get fleas," said Mrs Nunn.
"Fleas?" I said. "No you don't."
"Yes you do," Mrs Nunn said. "And crabs."
"Crabs?" I queried. "Pubic lice?"
"Yep." Mrs Nunn sounded pleased with herself. For the knowledge, rather than the pubic lice themselves.
"You get pubic lice from the cinema? People are rubbing their genitals on the cinema seats?"
"Some of them, yes. The dirty beggars." Mrs Nunn wasn't budging from her opinion.
"And then - in order to catch the crabs... you must also rub your genitals on the cinema seats?"
"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn. Here endeth the conversation.
"I know," I said. "You don't like the fact that other people rustle their sweet papers and that you can't pause the film whilst you get a cup of tea and go for a wee."
"Also, you get fleas," said Mrs Nunn.
"Fleas?" I said. "No you don't."
"Yes you do," Mrs Nunn said. "And crabs."
"Crabs?" I queried. "Pubic lice?"
"Yep." Mrs Nunn sounded pleased with herself. For the knowledge, rather than the pubic lice themselves.
"You get pubic lice from the cinema? People are rubbing their genitals on the cinema seats?"
"Some of them, yes. The dirty beggars." Mrs Nunn wasn't budging from her opinion.
"And then - in order to catch the crabs... you must also rub your genitals on the cinema seats?"
"Shut up," said Mrs Nunn. Here endeth the conversation.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Very personal shopper
Yesterday I had a personal shopping appointment at Debenhams. This was a very sneaky time of year to go as it turns out a) the sales are in full swing b) VAT hasn't gone up yet and c) the personal shopping service was really quiet so I could actually get an appointment. This was all very good.
However, despite being a veteran of the personal shopping experience, I have never yet had an appointment which has not proved Plog-worthy. Yesterday, dear Ploggers, was no exception.
I arrived bang on time and was greeted by Steven and an assistant, whom I think was probably in training as she asked quite strange questions like, "What would you say is your preference?"
"Of what?" I would ask, not unreasonably.
"You know, like romantic, classic, dramatic."
"Oh," I would say. "Obviously."
Anyway, I am not here to talk about the assistant. I am here to talk about Steven, whose name I have changed to protect his identity. We went through the usual questions about my height, dress size, budget and so on. He then asked me how old I was. I told him.
"I think you went to school with my brother," he said.
This surprised me, not least because I went to school 150 miles away. And it was a girls' school.
"Oh," said I.
"Yes," he said. "In Hainault."
This was clearly a case of mistaken identity. I do quite often get mistaken for other people - I think I have one of those faces. Many a time I've had to convince someone I didn't used to work with them in Southend, or sing a choir with them in Buckinghamshire. I must have looked a bit like someone he knew. But the Hainault thing was weird.
"I do live in Hainault," I said. "But I didn't go to school there." I explained the all-girlness and the distance of my school.
"I live round the corner from you," said Steven. And proceeded to tell me exactly where he lived. Which was - quite literally - just round the corner. It freaked me out a bit that he knew exactly where I lived, but I guess I must have given my details when I booked the appointment.
"Anyway," Steven continued, "my brother did go to school with a Laura Nunn. And she lives in Hainault. So you have a double."
This is a bit worrying. Another Laura Nunn in my neighbourhood. There are two of us. TheBloke (TM) asked me if it would be OK if he went round and had sex with her. I said not really. He got the hump because he said it's OK if she's called Laura Nunn. We then debated if there were more Laura Nunns than there were TheBloke (TM)s, so who would do better if we were allowed to shag anyone with the same name as each other.
I have high hopes for our marriage.
However, despite being a veteran of the personal shopping experience, I have never yet had an appointment which has not proved Plog-worthy. Yesterday, dear Ploggers, was no exception.
I arrived bang on time and was greeted by Steven and an assistant, whom I think was probably in training as she asked quite strange questions like, "What would you say is your preference?"
"Of what?" I would ask, not unreasonably.
"You know, like romantic, classic, dramatic."
"Oh," I would say. "Obviously."
Anyway, I am not here to talk about the assistant. I am here to talk about Steven, whose name I have changed to protect his identity. We went through the usual questions about my height, dress size, budget and so on. He then asked me how old I was. I told him.
"I think you went to school with my brother," he said.
This surprised me, not least because I went to school 150 miles away. And it was a girls' school.
"Oh," said I.
"Yes," he said. "In Hainault."
This was clearly a case of mistaken identity. I do quite often get mistaken for other people - I think I have one of those faces. Many a time I've had to convince someone I didn't used to work with them in Southend, or sing a choir with them in Buckinghamshire. I must have looked a bit like someone he knew. But the Hainault thing was weird.
"I do live in Hainault," I said. "But I didn't go to school there." I explained the all-girlness and the distance of my school.
"I live round the corner from you," said Steven. And proceeded to tell me exactly where he lived. Which was - quite literally - just round the corner. It freaked me out a bit that he knew exactly where I lived, but I guess I must have given my details when I booked the appointment.
"Anyway," Steven continued, "my brother did go to school with a Laura Nunn. And she lives in Hainault. So you have a double."
This is a bit worrying. Another Laura Nunn in my neighbourhood. There are two of us. TheBloke (TM) asked me if it would be OK if he went round and had sex with her. I said not really. He got the hump because he said it's OK if she's called Laura Nunn. We then debated if there were more Laura Nunns than there were TheBloke (TM)s, so who would do better if we were allowed to shag anyone with the same name as each other.
I have high hopes for our marriage.
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