Wrestling myself into consciousness on Saturday morning I noticed, right there in the bed beside me, a bump I didn’t recall inviting in the night before. It had not been a dramatic Friday, for I’d only had a quick pizza with my friend Donald before making it home without a statutory flying visit to Wetherspoons. I did briefly consider waking it and offering it a cup of coffee until I discovered, to my escalating horror that, indeed, my guest had not muscled its way back after an ill-advised drinking session, but was actually attached to my person. And as if that wasn’t appalling enough, to an area not traditionally associated with the finer points of romance.
A more intimate inspection was clearly requisite, one that involved my shaving mirror and a rudimentary attempt at yoga. And there, as in one of those early Victorian birthing daguerreotypes, was a minuscule extension of myself, nestled deep within the nucleus of an unattractive forest of hair and flesh. It was approximately the size of a hazelnut and seemed perfectly at ease with its newfound location, to the extent that it made me feel like a low-rent Henry Morton Stanley having just stumbled upon Dr Livingstone. I almost apologised for disturbing it.
Several online diagnoses later brought me to the unhappy conclusion that I was going to have to radically alter my diet, drink less Pinot and more water, do exercise and shower every five minutes just to appease the little bastard. For this was to be no symbiotic arrangement, at least as far as I could tell, which I bitterly resented. And as its correct medical moniker was way too long and disgusting for me to use on a regular basis, I decided to call it Samantha by way of softening the blow. In retaliation for this perceived slight, she made it nigh-on impossible for me to sit down for three days.
Unless I’m steaming, I’ve never been particularly deft at making new acquaintances. I tend to linger behind the protective cloak of shyness until somebody else makes the first move. The doctor at my GP’s, however, was unfettered by any such inhibitions. She and Samantha got on famously, chatting away as if they were ensconced inside a nightclub lavatory and had known each other for years. I lay on my side, facing the acid green wall with my knees pressed up against my ears and wondered at which stage of the appointment they might notice I was still present. After they’d exchanged phone numbers, I was told that Samantha and I would have to learn to get along, and turfed out into the rain.
To be fair, she’s eased off a bit on the searing pain. But frankly, I’m getting sick of having to make all the effort. If she were a flatmate, I’d have words. But she’s not. She’s a thrombosed external haemorrhoid. Try telling that to your mates and staying fashionable, bitch.