flossing the cat

My eleven year old has become obsessed with the question of lady whiskers. MY lady whiskers. I catch her standing in the kitchen doorway staring at me as I cook dinner. She looks decidedly queasy. "You ok?" I say. "Something wrong?" She is staring directly at my face. Clearly, my face is the thing that is wrong. "It's a stubble isn't it?" I say, finally. Her concern over my chin hair has become routine. Terrified that I might be morphing into Gandalf, she has taken to scanning my face for deviant follicles. I give my chin a quick sweep to reassure her. "Nothing there", I say breezily.  "I plucked them this morning!" I see her gag and little and figure that "plucked" is one of those words, (like "moist" or "Michael Gove"), that revolts people. "It's underneath. In the middle!" she says, with rising hysteria. "It's sticking out loads. It's totally black...

So, gals, here's the thing.  A couple of weeks ago, I discovered I suffer from a previously unknown condition called 'simia cervux' ( to give it its Latin name), meaning my cervix is basically a monkey. This shocking discovery was made during a routine smear test, when the practice nurse, having pried me open with an icy metal speculum THIS big (the bronze vaginal dilators of ancient Rome are an excellent reference point), made an  exasperated announcement. “Cheeky little monkey your cervix, isn’t she!”     As always I tried to make light of things. "Ha ha! Maybe try banana on top of the swab?!” I said. Like a twat. She shot me one of those weary “not again” looks that people usually reserve for moments when they a) step in dog shit or b) hear something Michael Gove said. Which is very fucking annoying, as it was she who brought the monkey into the conversation in the first place. I'm not a fucking vet, love.  Of course, this isn’t the...