152: During a heartfelt rendition of Grover Washington, Jr's 'Just The Two Of Us' you attempt to take a nonchalant swig of your Fanta Fruit Twist... and tip it over your shoulder, down your back.

Now that's what I call a drink problem.

I can only conclude birthdays are going to continue on some sort of upward curve of greatness as last year was so nice, and this year refused to be overshadowed by events and was really great too. Thanks to all who came on Saturday, it was great to see you and I was very drunk and don't remember from around 5pm onwards so you'll have to forgive me if I went on at length about my esteemed colleague / spilt my drink over you / cried a little bit / got the wrong end of the stick and started beating around the bush with it. And so forth.

Because I will doubtless look back this time next year to see what went on, there follows an exhaustive list of what else I've to since Thursday:

...walking to Waterloo from London Bridge and jamming myself onto a Hounslow train; walking round Hounslow hopelessly lost and trying not to cry; getting on the right bus several times only to find out it wasn't going all the way out west to my man; going to Hounslow bus station and crying until someone put me on the right bus which eventually got me there; eating and drinking and being relieved and making merry; receiving birthday presents (weeee!); drinking some more; getting chucked off a bus cos of a bomb scare in Uxbridge station; drinking a bit more; getting a kite; drinking to excess; getting stuck on the train back to Ux with a very sleepy/drunk Chauncey from around half midnight to two in the morning for no apparent reason; getting stuck on the same train for a further half hour because some numpty pulled the emergency cord; having a hangover; speculating about the nature of various mystery bruises; laughing/squealing with delight over certain persons certain childhood photos; being broody; watching Catterick (the whole thing); eating sweets; making Sunday lunch (which may or may not have included a frantic whispered phone call to my mum regarding the correct ingredients for Yorkshire puddings...); not drinking; sitting in the garden with the paper; errmmm... well, yes, drinking; watching World's Wildest Police Videos and not managing at any point over the weekend to actually go home to get my cards...

I'm in a whole new age bracket.

I am no longer 16 - 24.

Conclusion: I am a grown up. There were times when I honestly couldn't imagine I'd ever make it. Thank god I did.

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No, seriously, this post is about smear tests and it's gross. But I am still putting it up (ahahahahaha! ahhahahahaha!!) because it's important people who are putting it off can be persuaded to go by the blogging mileage they'll get from it.

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Yesterday (to, no doubt, the delight of Queener) I finally got my fat ass down to the doctors for my smear. So that's only 3 years overdue then. And the last one was dodgy as fuck. And I was supposed to follow it up after the hospital, but I, er, didn't. Oh, I'm sure it'll be fine. Anyway...

The last place I used to get it done in Reading, my appointments would be long drawn out affairs, with the nurse chatting away to me and holding on to the speculum (? is that right? I dare not google...) and warming it up (why don't they make plastic ones? Why? Why? Or maybe they do but not on the NHS) and telling me things about upside down pears or some such.

I now realise that was one of the upsides of living in the provinces.

I got to the docs for half eight in the bloody morning (my appointment time) only to find it locked up. I called them and a grumpy receptionist finally conceded that, yes, I did have an appointment and that, yes, she probably ought to get up and let me in. I might only be a receptionist, but I'm never grumpy. Especially to people I think might be getting something shoved up their cunt at some point in the next half hour.

Why can't they put you at ease in these places? God knows, the entire procedure would go a lot, uh, more smoothly if you weren't tense as hell. Why can't they light some candles and maybe give you a back massage? What's wrong with putting a bit of  jazz on and maybe opening a bottle of wine? Or, in the case of students, pouring five bacardi breezers down their neck and whacking on some cheesey disco hits? The NHS has no idea how to budget.

So, the nurse finally turned up around 20 minutes later (i.e. 20 minutes late, giving me a nice long time to get worked up about it), and called me in.

her: whaddya want today?
me: [slightly perturbed she doesn't know] my smear?
her: [turns round] take your pants off.
me: [takes pants off] [struggles up onto the couch]
her: [jabs!]
me: [thinks: RRRRRROOOOOWWWWWWAAAAAARGH!] ooo... bit... bit cold. that. ahahaha! ooo.
her: [frowns] hold on, I'll swap to a smaller one.*
me: [grits teeth and pushes butt back against the couch for all its worth] thanks...

some more jabbing and swiping later, it was all over. Then she had to give me the spiel about the whole breast thing. Once again I struggled valiantly not to say 'I get a man in' after she asked me if I checked my breasts, and once again I failed. And once again I was met with a stony stare. I'll never learn. Hell, if they're gonna stick to the same script so am I.

So I stood there and felt my boobs up a bit and after she was satisified I was embarrassed enough (having someone stare up my pussy - not embarrassing. having someone watching me 'palpate' my tits - hideously embarrassing. weird.) she told me I was free to go. And that it would be six weeks til I heard anything. Efficient!

Anyway, the whole thing only took about 10 minutes and it hardly hurt at all. I'm only making it out as a bit crappy for comic effect. So go and get it done. The easiest way not to worry is to compose your hilarious blog entry all about it in your head. And push that butt back into the couch.

* ha ha! I knew all the hours I spent at work locating my pelvic floor or whatever the hoofer it's called were not in vain.  Although clearly she'd taken one look at me when I walked in and assumed I was as slack as a crisp packet. Yes, this was an entire post about what a lovely downstairs I keep. Brought to you by Gillette Mach 3 and the entire Lush product range. Not inclusive of the hair dye.

Clearly, Google is trying to tell me something.

I should probably learn to be more graceful and sophisticated.

How does one do that when one is not tall or thin? (nota bene: look, I am talking all posh, that's a start.)

It was probably quite endearing getting my toe caught in my knickers and crashing into bedside cabinets when I was eighteen or nineteen (see also: falling backwards off bar stools during particularly hard laughs; sprawling down the aisles of various trains after getting my foot caught in peoples hoods/my other feet/thin air; falling backwards off nightclub podiums; walking into lamposts; getting my hair caught around the buttons of coats travelling in the opposite direction to me; misjudging the amount in my glass and tipping ice cubes into my bra; accidentally flinging myself out of bed attempting to emulate something I'd seen in FHM; slipsliding over a dancefloor and straight to casualty; setting fire to the sleeve of my dressing gown on the gas hob; absentmindedly blowing into an ash tray and getting covered in, well, ash; and so on and so forth... suddenly I'm realising why my drama teacher told me I was too 'quirky' to ever play leading parts. She actually meant I was as refined as an ox.)

My voice is too high and my hair is too tangly for me to ever be thought of as remotely elegant or poised. The only bit of me that is are my eyebrows (and not my grammar, clearly) and even they are threatening to get out of control.

Funny, this didn't bother me a couple of months ago...

Now, you'll have to excuse me - I've just noticed I've managed to drop some of my breakfast yoghurt onto my skirt. 

* quite obviously nothing to do with being old, and everything to do with me suddenly realising I'm not Lauren Bacall.

Which two animals are cooler?

a) Lion and Tiger.

b) Monkey and Crab.

If you were dropping in your documents to do a PhD, would it worry you at all if you found the postgrad office closed and the only person you could give your important transcripts to was barefoot and dancing around behind her desk to Led Zep? With her eyes closed? So that when she eventually stopped swinging her hair around and noticed you she screamed a little bit?

I think I would like a university like that, myself.