How I came to shriek like I was in a Carry On film as my bra flew across the car park – Susan Morrison
My awesome oncologist, Lesley the Redoubtable, ordered up another CT scan.
A terribly nice young woman from a Posh Private Hospital called to invite me to shuffle up and get scanned there, on account of the NHS thundering away to shift the backlog and outsourcing where necessary.
It’s up by Polwarth. Jings, I thought, I’ll turn up and the property prices will drop.
Naturally, I chose my nicest underwear for my visit. This hospital was clearly a classy joint. One of the joys of binning your boobs is that you get to wear pretty little bralettes, all pastel colours and lace, instead of the great clunky beasts I used to sport. The sort of bras that looked Clyde-built.
My, but it's a posh hospital. Herbal tea in the waiting rooms, no less.
CT scans hate metal, so the radiographer and I had the usual “are you wearing an underwired bra?” conversation, I gave the usual “no boobs” answer, and the nurse popped off to sort stuff out.
Oh, hang on, I thought, there are a few tiny bits of metal on this wee bralette right enough. Best whip it off, which I did, then stuffed it in my bag.
Scan completed, they sent me back out into the sun.
In the car park, a very old, distinguished gent on a walking frame headed my way. Sort of chap who looked like he could handle an orderly retreat from Kabul across the mountain passes.
I reached into my bag for my car keys, haul keys from depths of bag, keys snag and launch bralette into the air, which then lands smack on the gentleman's walking frame.
I genuinely shrieked like a 1950s’ matron from a Carry On film, then said: “Can I have my bra back?”
The gentleman smiled and replied: “A long time since a lady said that to me.”
The working-class smart-mouth in me reasserted herself: “Ha, still waiting, mate, I'm no lady.”
A whiplash comeback: “Would you care to go for a drink?”
Cheeky chappie. Should have gone for that drink. Once I’d put my bra back on.