Cervix with a smile

"I'm very distracted today", the nurse giggles as she snaps on her latex gloves. "My daughter is about to give birth to my second grandchild. She's been in hospital since early this morning".

I smile politely and make all the right sort of congratulatory noises that one does in these circumstances. "Ooh how lovely.... does she know what it is yet... you must be so proud, etc" She beams excitedly and drops the lid of the tube of lubricant she is brandishing, "Oops, I'm all fingers and thumbs today!"

Not exactly the news I want to hear at this precise moment while lying on the surgery couch, knees under my chin, dignity in tatters, awaiting my long overdue cervical smear test.

She ducks under the bed and rummages around until she retrieves the lid. "Just as well I found it, as it has that pointy bit on the end". I wince and try hard to think about the large glass of Sauvignon Blanc I'm due, for getting through this.

She adjusts her bendy lamp to illuminate parts of me that were never designed to be on show under a spotlight. The view doesn't seem to put her off, as she's in full flow now, telling me how far her daughter's cervix was dilated when they last spoke on the phone. (4 cms in case you were wondering).

"Now, just relax" she twitters, waving a large perspex implement in the direction of my nether regions. It looks as if it would be better placed under the counter in one of Soho's more "open minded" sales establishments, than in a doctors surgery but she appears to know what she's doing.

"Easy for you to say", I mutter under my breath, trying hard to distract myself by gazing out of the window into the upstairs flat opposite. I concentrate on the oversized, overstuffed beige sofa that dominates the sitting room and wonder at what passes for the occupant's idea of interior design.

Three large 70's prints of sailing ships hang from the wall above the sofa in a slightly skewed fashion, and a pink tassled lampshade which has seen better days, dangles dejectedly from the ceiling. A couple of dying pot plants in clumsy blue and white ceramic pots finish the look.

As I lie there, feet pointing skyward, thinking Laurence Llewellyn Bowen would have kittens if he saw the decor, it occurs to me I have a very good view of this room.

In fact, too good a view.....

Oh bloody hell, the distracted, over-excited grandma to be, has left the blinds open! It's too late now, she's brandishing the biggest cotton bud I've ever seen, still chattering about the imminent arrival, completely unaware of the growing panic happening up at the other end of the couch.

A sudden movement drags my eyes back to the window of the flat. An elderly gentleman has entered the room carrying a tray of scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of tea.

I know it is scrambled eggs on toast because I am practically in the room with him. He has a small pepper pot at the side of the plate with "A gift from Crete" written on it in italics.

He takes his time, sinking back into the sofa and adjusting his postition to make sure the tray is balanced on his lap. Once seated comfortably, he carefully cuts through his toast using a butter knife, before scooping up the first forkful, ready to enjoy his breakfast.

He raises his head, mouth open, ready for the first bite.

Our eyes meet, and his mouth opens a damn sight wider.... this time, in complete horror at the spectacle before him. His meal slides off the tray onto the floor, the toast landing buttery side down. Isn't that always the way?

I smile politely, and raise my eyebrows in what is supposed to be a nonchalant manner. And when that doesn't work (he seems to be choking) I try a cheery wave and a casual roll of my eyes, as if to say, "well, here we are again, would you believe?"

But he's not waving back. He's clutching at the Warden Assisted Emergency Button which is hanging round his neck. It flashes red as he presses it. "Ah, calling someone to help pick up the toast," I summise.

I give him a thumbs up sign with both hands and a knowing wink, which is more tricky than you think from my horizontal position, legs akimbo.

He stops pressing the button and starts holding his chest, sinking to the floor as he does so, until he is out of view under the windowsill (presumably making a start on clearing up the butter that landed on the carpet, before the warden arrives.)

"All done" cries an upbeat voice from Down South. I hop off the couch and adjust my dress before leaving.

"Ooh" she says, " I am a pickle today aren't I? I clean forgot to shut the blinds! I'm so sorry."

She peers through the surgery window towards the flat opposite.

"It's a good job old Mr Phillipoussis over the road is out today. He's got a weak heart. Seeing something like that first thing in the morning could finish him off!"

Find out more about the cervical smear test - with the blinds closed....