Bedside Manner

At least once a year, I take myself off to the Sexual Health clinic for an M.O.T. An elderly lady, for whom everything is a palaver, sits at the reception desk, letting me know her martyrdom within thirty seconds. Then I am taken to see another woman, who ignores me while filling in my record form, and from there, I am told to sit in a huge but empty waiting room.

A few minutes later, my name is called and I follow another woman into another large room where I am told to sit. The doctor tells me her name. I ask her to repeat it as I didn’t catch it, and then tell her it is a pleasure to meet her. Her manner is perfunctory and she asks me what she can do for me. I tell her, so she asks me some questions.

When we get to ‘what do you do for a living?’ she stops writing, looks up at me and tells me she was discussing pole dancing with a friend of hers and that they were interested in taking a class. She asks me more questions, what, where, when and why I do what I do. I answer them all honestly, and I go into my patter about the benefits of this particular form of exercise.

The doctor’s demeanour changes. She opens up. She tells me about her life, how she’s been unable to lose the baby weight, and how she feels so self-conscious at the gym, she’s stopped going. She asks for my card, and I hand it over before we proceed with the form-filling and the examination.

We now chat with an easy and friendly familiarity. I like her, and it is clear she has warmed to me. As she examines me, she tells me anecdotes and we laugh, and it is with some reluctance that I dress and leave; she was so lovely, I could’ve stayed and chatted for hours.