A tale of two titties and a gaudy pink sunchair

//A tale of two titties and a gaudy pink sunchair

I had one of those routine mammograms last week, you know, the booby squash, where they basically stick your tits, one at a time, into what could only be described as ‘a clamp’ and literally squash the bejeysus out of them.  To be fair, they’re quite gentle here in the UK. When I lived in Spain, it wasn’t just a squash you were given, but a virtual flattening of the breast, sideways. As they’d tighten the clamp, they’d ask if you were ok and even if the answer was ‘No, not really’, the pressure would still continue.  So much so that you’d be on the point of passing out. However, the sheer thought of what would happen if you did pass out would be enough to stop that particular scenario. Could you imagine it, sure you’d be hanging out of that machine by your right or left tit as the rest of your body was heading towards the ground.  No matter how big your titties might be, they wouldn’t be strong enough to defy gravity, should you lose consciousness. It doesn’t bear thinking about…euewwwh. You’d leave that appointment with one boob hanging down around your waist, at best. I’m convinced to this day that the Spanish staff employed for the mammograms had previous careers, in the secret service and were trained in torture.

The  trip for the booby squash, didn’t come with the trepidation I would have experienced had I still been living abroad.  Having had one three years ago, I was pretty confident that SAS staff in the UK were kept strictly for terrorism. With that in mind, as I’ve become prone to do, I treated the NHS visit as a day out.   Beautiful blue skies stretched above as the blinding sun forced me to grab my shades from the glove compartment. Sat nav set to ‘Go’, off I drove in search of the mobile unit that housed the booby squash machine and the staff to operate it.   

My destination was approximately 10 miles away and though I was familiar with the first half of the journey, I became a little concerned when my sat nav refused to speak to me.  This has been a problem on previous occasions and as it’s on my phone, I decided to pull in and check the settings, in case it was simply the volume which needed adjusting. No such luck, the stubborn young one who usually gave me audio directions, obviously had laryngitis or was too hungover to bother this morning. I even checked the radio to see if it was my aural challenges, as I wasn’t wearing my hearing aids.  No, I could hear that perfectly well, I’m not that deaf, but just as well to explore every option.

Looking at the clock on the dash, I realised I didn’t have the luxury of delaying  I needed to get back on the road. So, switching on my indicators, waiting for a gap in the traffic, I eventually pulled back out onto the road and continued my journey.  At least listening to the radio was an option, I reasoned and turning on some tunes, put the phone in a good position, to be able to glance at it without being a danger to the other motorists.  

A few expletives later, having doubled around roundabouts, when I’d missed a turn,  I arrived at the train station, where the mobile unit was based. Nicely parked up, I made my way to the nearby machine, bought a ticket and put it on the dash of my car.  There in the distance, I saw the mobile unit, clear as day, easy peasy, sure I even had five minutes to spare. Pleased with my timing, when I reached the unit, I climbed the steps which ironically had a notice advising ‘mind the step’ at the very top of them’ and another, saying, ‘please do not lean on the handrail’ , both notices in clear sight.  What the feck was the reason for a handrail, if you couldn’t lean on it. Sure most of the people going to these booby squash appointments are aul ones like myself and older, many likely to have arthritic knees or other ailments that assault the body when you hit the big 5 0. ‘’Life begins at 50’ my arse…more like ‘a new life begins at 50, one with degenerate body parts’.  So, the hand rail was obviously just an accessory.

When I reached the top, I did ‘mind the step’ which was in fact the space between the top of the rickety stairs and the floor of the mobile unit.  This was a whole different experience than my recent trip to an MRI mobile unit. This felt like a large caravan, a mobile home, whereas the MRI unit had been like the real deal.  You would have sworn you were inside the hospital. To the left of the door was a ‘reception desk’, a small wooden unit, with a dour looking individual sitting behind it.

‘Hello’, I ventured.  

‘Name please’, was the answer.  Jaysus, maybe she ‘was’ military trained, not so much secret service but likely a Sergeant Major in a previous life.  When I told her my name, she admonished me on the spot. 

‘This is not the allocated time for your appointment’, boomed the bossy buxom broad.

I interrupted her before she could continue, advising proudly that I was in fact  two minutes early. ‘Madam, you are an hour and 2 minutes early’ Sergeant Major Booby Squash boomed once more.

‘Oh’, was all I managed, then recovering myself in the wake of such obvious authority, continued

‘Ah sure I have a book with me, I’ll just sit and wait, if you don’t mind’.

Well you’d swear I had suggested that I remove the rickety staircase outside and ladies would have to be winched up for their torture, the look that aul one gave me.  

‘That isn’t possible, Madam, there is only one seating area, which serves two people, you will have to leave and come back’

Looking around, I could see that she wasn’t kidding, though it would have been hard to tell, to be fair, as she spoke in monotone and there certainly wasn’t a hint of a glint in her eye.  So, accepting my fate, I exited the mobile unit and descended the stairs, holding onto, if not leaning on, the rail and walked back to my car.

Cursing the extra parking that needed to be paid, I leaned against my car, pondering how to spend the hour before the appointment.   Best not venture too far, I didn’t know the area well enough, to make sure to get back on time. It was a beautiful sunny day and I knew the beach was nearby but felt pretty sure I’d only get there and have to turn back.  Then, like a lightbulb being switched on, an idea came into my head. Sure wasn’t my sun chair in the boot of my car, a present from my lovely son and daughter in law, two days previously.

‘They only had gaudy pink or gaudy green’ my son had apologised on producing this surprise gift, but sure isn’t gaudy my middle name.  I was thrilled when the pink one was presented to me. I’d put it in the boot of my car, for trips to the beach or wherever, throughout the summer, never imagining its first outing would be to a mobile booby squasher.  In the middle of the car park of a railway station, of all things. But sure, isn’t that life for you, full of surprises.

With a bit of a cool breeze blowing, it was important to find a nice sun trap for my brightly coloured sun chair and lo and behold the best spot in that car park, was right beside the rickety steps of the mobile unit.  There was nothing for it but to park my botty in that spot. With my book and a bottle of water, I was all set up. Donning the shades once more, I shrugged off my jacket and removed the top layer of my clothing, leaving a string top underneath.  Perfect for catching the rays. I even slipped down the straps so as to get an even colour. Settling in, I began to read my book, delighted with my inspirational plan.

What seemed like seconds later, my thoughts were interrupted by a male voice.

‘That looks like it’, I heard ’but oh, maybe it’s a camper van, there’s a woman sunbathing outside it.’

‘No’ an insistent voice retorted, ‘it’s not a camper van, it has ‘N H S’ written on the side.  Maybe that’s one of the technicians having a break’.

I looked up to see an aul one and aul lad approaching the mobile unit.

‘Are you here for a booby squash appointment?’ I ventured, correcting myself quickly when I saw the look of shock on their faces ‘sorry I mean mammogram’.

‘Well yes, actually, the lady answered.

‘You’re in the right place so,’ I advised ‘but they don’t let aul lads in’, I continued pointing to a sign  advising that men had to wait outside. ‘So he’ll have to wait here’, I nodded towards the gent accompanying her.  

The couple whispered to each other and the aul lad patted the aul one on the back as she ventured up the metal stairs.  

‘Don’t lean on that rail, whatever you do’, I shouted after her and she pulled her hand off the steel as if she had had an electric shock, while climbing to the top, then tripped slightly on the way through the entrance of the unit.  She mustn’t have seen the sign.

The aul lad shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another as he waited outside but sure I soon put him at his ease, chattering away, as I do and by the time his wife returned, we were like old friends.  He introduced me to her and I enquired as to how intense the titty torture was. Bless her, she laughed but did, however agree with the Sergeant Major characteristics of the receptionist. Chuckling together the nice couple made their way back to their car as another booby squash patient approached.  From then on, I never got a chance to read my book. If I wasn’t advising aul ones about the rickety rail or step avoidance, I was chatting to the lads who were banned from entry. Sure I had a great time. That is..until…that familiar boom could be heard.

‘Ms Glennon’…startled I stopped mid-conversation with a lovely aul fella, turning to look in the direction of that monotonal mare, just in time to see the Sergeant Major’s stern face looking down from the top of the steel stairs, in, was that amusement?  There certainly appeared to be a glint in her eye as she bellowed …‘I see you have created your own personal waiting area and are kindly entertaining the gents while they wait. However, it is now time for your own appointment for, what was it you called it ‘a booby squash’.  My mouth must have been on the floor with the shock, as I was beckoned to follow her. She had obviously overheard me talking to the aul ones and aul lads, but sure that’s no surprise, without my hearing aids, I’m like one of those tannoys in a train station.  

Up those steel stairs I climbed,  good as gold, didn’t lean on the rail, didn’t trip over the step.  As I hadn’t brought a man, there was no need to ask him to wait outside. The now softer faced Sergeant Major directed me to a cubicle and asked me to remove my bra, but to leave on my string top. , I did as I was directed and within  two minutes or so, a kindly lady invited me in to the booby scanning room and asked me to place my right tit on a section between two metal clamps. Lifting my ample breast out of my string top, I placed it on the relevant spot. However, it was a centimetre or so off, so the nice woman just took a hold of it and quite literally lifted it herself, a centimetre to the right, resting it in the right spot for the scan.  My booby hadn’t it so good in a long time, all of this manhandling, or womanhandling to be more precise. That thought was rapidly erased as a button was pressed and the that giant clamp closed in from both directions, squishing and squashing, pressing and pinching. It was just getting to the stage where I was willing to retract my earlier statement about the UK scanning staff not being trained in torture when…the clamp let my booby go, just like that!  The feckin relief! My sigh was audible but alas the reprieve was short lived as I was now requested to place my left breast on the same section for the compression to begin all over again. This time I saw the titty reshuffle as just a prelude to the squash, as amusement dissipated, to be replaced by a little dread of the pressing and pinching to come. I needn’t have worried, whether it was because I knew what to expect or the titty torturer just went a bit easier on me this time round, it was grand.

A minute or so later,, the booby scan was over.  I thanked the nice aul titty squasher, God himself only knows why, but it seemed like the right thing to do. .  As I was leaving the room, I thought, ‘What a job, Jaysus’. Lifting boobies all day, all shapes and sizes, squishing them, pinching them.  Sure the whole thing could have only taken five minutes and there were other aul ones waiting to go in. One in each cubicle, one on the waiting seat and another, quite literally falling through the door.   On my way out, I thanked Sergeant Major Booby Squash, who barely seemed to hear me above her booming voice as she asked the tripping titty squashee if she had missed the sign advising her of the step.

As I descended the steel steps to freedom, I was so busy thanking the powers that be for my release for the clamping caravan, I almost walked by my sun chair.  

‘How on earth could you miss a gaudy pink sunchair’, I hear you ask.  Very easily is my answer, when there’s an aul fella reading a newspaper sitting on it.  AWKWARD!! I slowed my steps as I pondered what my approach should be. Mentally doing some maths, I figured that if his other half was in the clamping van, then she could have been the tripping tottie, a seated spouse, one of the scantily clad cubicle ladies in waiting…or God forbid she could be mid clamp.  So, that aul lad could be on that seat for anything from another few minutes to twenty minutes, or even half an hour, depending on the length of each booby squash.

Taking into consideration, how much time was left on my parking ticket, I decided, there was nothing for it but to ask the aul lad to move.

‘Howaya’..I greeted the man, who raised his head towards me, shielding his eyes with his right hand as he squinted in the sun.  ‘Good morning’, the man retorted, a little abruptly, then returned his gaze to his newspaper, with glasses perched halfway down his nose.  

‘Ermm…I need to take that chair now’ I continued.  The man looked at me in surprise, and enquired as to what chair I was referring.

‘The one you’re sitting on’, I replied.  ‘Oh’ he said, ‘are you waiting for your mmmaa’ obviously a little embarrassed as he appeared to trip over the words. ‘

‘The booby squash’, I interrupted, helping him out a little ‘no, I’ve had mine done, Jaysus, it’s not the best, you lads are lucky you don’t have tits, but sure it must be worse having your gahoolies checked’, I continued, ‘don’t they have to stick’…I never got any further. The poor aul lad looked at me in horror, got up out of that seat faster than a man of his advanced years should have been able and walked rapidly away from the chair and the mobile unit, out of sight, where to, nobody knows.  Except maybe the aul one who at that very moment was descending those steel stairs, looking puzzled, in the direction the aul lad had rushed.

Resisting the urge to sit in the sun for the remainder of my parking time, I folded up my gaudy pink sunchair, chuckling to myself as I made my way to my car, happy to be a woman in this day and age where certain health checks are concerned.  Rather a squash than a poke any day!!

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By |2019-04-26T19:02:30+00:00April 26th, 2019|Comments Off on A tale of two titties and a gaudy pink sunchair

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