If that was me in Taken, my Dad would probably miss the phone call then call me back three days later asking why I still haven’t sorted my water meter out.
And he’d be well within his right to; I’m notoriously bad for sorting things out that have no direct interest to me, (undiagnosed adult ADD.) For example, I’ve been living in my flat now for three months and I still have no idea where my water meter is, how to put my boiler on a timer or what the unidentified clicking noise from my radiator means.
So it’ll come as no surprise when I say I’ve also completely forgotten to register with a doctor.
Urgh fine, that’s a lie too. I haven’t forgotten. I remember every day when I see something on the news about lowering the age for smear tests. But I keep putting off because I’m lazy. There, are you happy now, Mum? I’m lazy.
Anyway, the point is that not being registered at a doctor means I don’t have the luxury of repeat prescriptions. So when I ran out of my pill last week I had the joy of spending my Saturday morning at the walk-in clinic to get some more.
Approximately ten minutes into my wait the doors flew open and a furious blonde girl stormed into the building like she was entering the battle for Middle Earth – forcing me to briefly look up from fixating on my knees in a bid to avoid eye contact with anyone else in the room.
Practically dragged behind her by the scruff of his hoodie was a sheepish looking lad, who was promptly shoved at the reception desk.
“He needs an STI test. Today.” The blonde girl spat at the receptionist, clearing her throat first to ensure everyone’s undivided attention. And clutching the necessary forms, they found a seat in the waiting area… which just so happened to be next to me.
“So, have you got a fella?” she barked at me after a couple of minutes, making half the room jump two foot in the air.
“Erm… no.” I replied, hoping that would satisfy her enough for me to go back to intently staring at absolutely nothing on my phone in peace.
“Good. Don’t bother. They’re all rats.” – she said ‘rats’ with the same venom that one might use when discussing UKIP or kitten heels.
“Like this one,” she dug her elbow into the ribs of the lad next to her, who seemed to be slowly melting further and further into his chair, “I only went and caught him shagging, shagging,” (she emphasised the latter so the whole room could hear,) “some little scruff in our bed.”
It was at this point that I realised that the greatest superhero would be the one that saved you from awkward conversations.
“Babe, do we have to do this here?” the lad, who was now a lovely shade of beetroot, muttered to the blonde.
“Yes we have to do this here” she said, standing up now, “because if you can sleep with random girls wherever you want, then I can talk about it wherever I want.”
She had a point.
For the next five minutes, (which doesn’t sound like a long time, but is when you’re sat next to a heated argument) the lad apologised profusely for every mistake he’d ever made to the soundtrack of the blonde girl screaming ‘gobshite’ at him.
I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t captivating.
The scene ended with the girl tipping one of the waiting room chairs over and storming out of the building.
Will they ever sort it out? Who knows. But the moral of the story; register with a doctor if you want to avoid awkward domestics, and if you’re going to cheat, at least use protection.
Seriously though everyone, if you are having sex on the reg, (well done you, smashing life!) please make sure that you get yourself tested. Klaus Erling Johansen, a GUM Specialist Nurse at CNWL advises: “Anyone who is sexually active should be tested regularly. Some infections don’t show up in symptoms, especially in men – but they can still be passed on, and can often be much more serious for women.” So come on guys, just go and do it.
Until next time… x