It’s two months after my hernia operation and I’m due a visit to my oncologist.
Oops! Freudian slip. I mean my consultant. Clearly, in some bizarre way, I’m trying to give my own, tiny, pathetic medical procedure more prominence than it deserves – by subconsciously thinking I might require an oncologist myself.
Well, that’s clearly not the case.
As I sit down in his office, my hernia consultant is his usual jolly self.
He examines me, then asks how I’ve been down there the last two months.
‘It’s been a little sore,’ I admit. ‘I think I might have over-exerted myself – you know, physically – down there, a few weeks ago.’
‘Oh yes,’ says the oncologist (oops, did it again, I mean the consultant says), ‘by doing what exactly?’
Being a consummate professional, the consultant doesn’t let on if he’s interested in whether I’m about to say something salacious (on the other hand, I am a middle-aged bloke, so maybe he’s just not interested).
The consultant’s calm, dispassionate manner makes it easier for me to say what I’m about to say.
‘I’m worried I might have torn something down there,’ I now say, with embarrassment, ‘by going up and down on a… you know…’
‘Yes?’ the consultant says, raising an eyebrow barely perceptibly.
‘… on a space hopper,’ I conclude.
‘A space hopper?’ the consultant asks incredulously, his professional disinterest vanishing in the blink of an eye.
‘It was at my partner’s sister’s house. There were space hopper races. They’re very gung-ho in that family and they talked me into doing one. And then…’ I glance down nervously at the area where the keyhole surgery was carried out.
I expect the consultant to be unimpressed at my carelessness… but, instead, he starts laughing heartily. It’s clearly the most amusing – or dumb – thing he’s heard all day.
He assures me everything’s OK down there. I needn’t worry. At the very worst, what I’m suffering from is probably DOMS – delayed onset muscle soreness – the kind of thing which kicks in a few days after pushing yourself too far in the gym.
‘Have you experienced that before?’ he asks.
‘Oh yes!’ I tell him. I explain I once had really bad DOMS after… er…
‘Yes?’ he asks.
‘After I went on a mud run with my partner’s family. I think it was the monkey bars which did it. I was aching in my shoulders for months.’
I want to tell the consultant how gung-ho Lizzie’s family is. How they made me do the mud run (sort of). How they keep on making me do these idiotic activities (and I’m clearly too weak to say no).
But the consultant isn’t listening. He’s still chortling at the words ‘mud run.’ Despite the consultant’s professionalism, I’m pretty sure he’s laughing at me and not with me.
P. D. Clifton 
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