I popped in to see my beautician. I’ve known her for years, so I felt as comfortable and at ease as one can feel, lying knickerless with your legs akimbo in the presence of another lady. I was chatting away merrily, telling her my Jubilee plans in mind-numbing detail (I also very much enjoy boring my hairdresser, cleaner and therapist- really anyone who can’t get away while I talk at them).
‘And I think I might have to do some laundry tonight,’ I said. ‘Because I’m going to want to wear those new pink trousers on Sunday.’ ‘AAAAAGH,’ My beautician screamed in horror. ‘What is that?’ ‘AAAAGH’, I screamed without thinking. (I also whisper, if someone begins whispering at me. It’s all terribly Pavlovian).
‘What is wrong with my vagina?’ I shouted at her. ‘What’s happening down there?’ My beautician looked at me in startled amazement. ‘What on earth are you screaming for?’ She asked. I stared at her. ‘What on earth am I screaming for?’ I shouted. ‘You’re looking at my vagina and screaming in horror. What else would I be doing?’ ‘I was just wondering where you got that big bruise on your knee,’ My beautician replied calmly, and continued with her job.