I was back at the hospital today. It is becoming regular. Pretty soon, people will talk. I am already greeted by name. Today’s treat was a trip to the Prosthetic Clinic. I was hoping for a gloomy room in the bowels of the hospital with various false limbs propping up the corners and cupboard doors groaning under the weight of legs making a bid for freedom. But no. Once again I was in the All Singing All Dancing Breast Unit, for this Prosthetic Clinic was just for boobs. No gloomy rooms, no cluttered corners, no false limbs legging it out of cupboards. Just an excess of pink *sigh*.
I took my comfy but ugly new bra with me as instructed and without further ado stripped to the waist. It is a funny old business. I have never been one to shy away from flashing but this latest episode of my life has seem me strip and flash in a new and not altogether thrilling manner. As accomplishments go, it is not one I shall be listing on my CV anytime soon. Anyway, Ms Fitter soon had me eyed up and rootled through her neatly stacked store for one to try. Who would have thought falsies came in so many different sizes? As I already have my shoubsicle, I need a partial rather than full prothesis but we still had to decide between a tear drop shape or a more triangular style. Turns out I am triangular. Ms Fitter deftly placed a size 6 into the pocket on my bra and stood back to admire the effect. We chatted for a while about maintenance (seriously) and imagine my delight when I discovered that for a week’s holiday, I can manage with just the one ‘ordinary’ one and that a swimming prosthesis will not be necessary. Did you even know swimming protheses even existed? I had hoped they came with their own water wings and bikinis but apparently not.
During the time it took for us to have our chat, my size 6 oh-for-goodness-sake-I-can’t-keep-calling-it-a-prothesis shrank. For a moment I thought I had acquired one with a particularly shy nature, but it seems this happens. They settle in. Well, this one appeared to more than settle in. It had put on its slippers, curled up in an arm chair and was merrily dunking custard creams into its tea. This would not do. Size 6 was whipped out, sternly reprimanded and shut away in its box. Ms Fitter decided a size 8 was in order. More furtling followed but eventually everyone was happy. So happy am I that the scarf I was wearing, for I have become Scarf Woman, was consigned to the carrier bag and I went home proudly displaying my newly perky rack for all to admire. Should I ever become bored of wearing Size 8 in the usual manner, it could double up as a hat. For it perfectly fits my head. The nipple may take some explanation but otherwise I think I could rock that look.