Tit torture – and sporting prowess

It has been a torrid couple of weeks. Horrid, i guess, to the extent that i have mostly felt disinclined to post.

But maybe there is light at the end of the tunnel – and so it is past time for me to dip a toe back in the water and start to bring stuff back up to date.

Beginning with a bout of initially quite worrying breast business.

Boob stuff

Which is mostly the fault of my GP, who is good, conscientious, but also tends to worry at the detail. She is perfectly happy treating me as a woman: but that also means follow that logic thru to its inevitable conclusion. Which is that my present hrt dose is a little on the high side for a woman of my age.

And, courtesy of a recent check-up with her, i admitted to continuing sore boobs (which as far as i am concerned is no change from what has been the case for the best part of a year or two now)…and therefore i need a scan.

But because I am not entirely average, and because they are still very much at the growth stage, she reckoned i should see a specialist first. Which is why, this morning, i set off for the Edith Cavell, in Peterborough…there to be pushed, prodded and generally touched up by a charming little man…who, i hope, was the real consultant, and not some guy wandering in off the street and chancing it.

For some reason, this pushing, etc. was not to be viewed by andrea, who had come along for the ride…so a curtain was drawn and i was prodded in private.

And then, after he determined that no great damage would be done if i had a regular scan, it was off to the mammography unit, where the radiographer (?) further pushed, pulled and generally squeezed me into shape, before taking a series of utterly unerotic boob shots.

Mmmm… Not, in the end, quite the terrifying experience i feared. And no: i have no objection to the physical exam…its the interaction that was worrying me, my having drawn almost at random over the last couple of years some blokes who were wonderful and some who seriously set my teeth on edge when it came to matters medical.

Sporting matters

Then back to school, just in time to catch the boy coming first in the bean bag race for his year group at school. He then proceeded to pick up gold in the “quoit-on-head” race (i kid you not!) and a second in the hurdles.

There, informed opinion suggests, he would probably have picked up another first, had it not been for sabotage from his mum, who called out his name loudly, enthusiastically at a critical juncture in the proceedings…causing him to stop, look around, and lose his lead.

Still, he does not cease to amaze. Wacthing him limber up for the start of each of the races: watching him don hat and sunshades before going out this morning; or last week, sitting on the sidelines as he played football, i do wonder about inheritance.

Where DOES he get this coolness, this sportiness from. At his age, place me on a playing field anywhere near any sporting event, whether involving balls (of any shape) or none, and i looked mostly like a sack of potatoes.

Take me out socially…and i guess this applied until a couple of years back and…ditto.

On the sports front, its not just that i never much liked it: it was another of those alien languages. Fashion-wise…i don’t think it even occurred to me that there was any way for a bloke to dress up nicely.

Difference, certainly. A little more confirmation, too, that whatever it is that comes oh-so-naturally to the boy is something i never ever got. Nice – for him.

A shame, for me, i didn’t put two and two together sooner.

jane xx

1 Response so far »

  1. 1

    eclectic chicken said,

    “Where DOES he get this coolness, this sportiness from.”

    from me ‘obviously’🙂


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