It’s Friday and I’m back at the Harley Street Clinic, my home-from-home. I strip off and, before Mr Hadjiminas can say anything, I tackle the obvious controversy head on. “I’m not wearing the compression bra today. I’m fed up with it.”
“But I’ve brought this,” I add, brandishing the big stretchy bandage, “I thought maybe we can cut it in half and I can wear it just below my breasts.”
I’m not asking.
“No, that won’t work,” says Mr H, “the best thing would be to cut two holes in it.”
“What,” says Honoria, like something you’d get in a sex shop in Soho?”
“No. Well. Hmmm…” says Mr H, “…and bring us some photos when you’ve done it” He jabs a syringe full of steroid into my back.
Re-dressed I join the medics on the other side of the screen. “So, what’s next?” I ask. “Come back and see me in three or four weeks,” says Mr H.
“Then I’m due back in November for another mammogram and stuff,” I say.
“Yes that’s right,” he says.
“Phhhht,” say I, expelling air through pursed lips. Then I feel bad, “It’s not that I don’t love you,” I hasten to explain.
“I know,” says Mr H.
As I’m walking out the door Mr Hadjiminas calls me back. “Lily, if you need another one of those bandages let me know and I will get you one.”
“What,” I say, “do you think I’m going to bugger it all up with the scissors? I did go to fashion college you know.”
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