So there I was at the gynaecologist's a while ago, legs akimbo, discussing the merits of BP cuts vs. the Government's simultaneous cutbacks on staff and spending in the NHS and how attempting the two together is against what they could achieve. Hey Ho.
In the meanwhile he is checking out why a picture of my insides is not hitting the computer screen in front of him and reaching down to ensure cables are plugged in tight, this way and that and the probe inside me is going this way and that too. It is years since my vagina had seen such action and I didn't like to say how uncomfortable this whole palaver was making me, so carried on grinning politely, really trying to enjoy the intellectual conversation, as he became increasingly distracted, confused and distressed and my insides took a bashing.
Eventually he gave up, called someone not as senior as he was in order not to waste any more of his precious time and insensitively left the room to attend to some poor other bugger(s) whose legs were in the air. I got moved to another room, only for the same messy, inconvenient and, by now, rather humiliating ritual on his return. And then, all over again.
During this time, it took the most junior person in the room to fathom, as it transpired, that a failure of enough conducting gel between the willy shaped camera thing and the sheath that only accentuated it was the cause, by which time, between the sonographer's awkward comings and goings, albeit rather charming ones, we had run out of things to say and that made me sad.
As is the plight of many a lonely mum, single or otherwise, and having been absurdly and surprisingly grateful for it, I hadn't had such a decent proper adult chat in ages.