“…which is the piece of skin between the vagina and the bumhole.”

Once more I shift awkwardly in my seat. I checked my watch surreptitiously but the hands appear to be moving backwards. The midwife charges on regardless.

I am not even sure whether ‘bumhole’ is a generally accepted official anatomical term. As far as I am concerned, the only context in which the word ‘bumhole’ should really be used is something like: ‘yah boo, it is a good job that it is the end of playtime otherwise I shall beat you up because you have a face like a bumhole’. I start to worry that she is not qualified and just pretending to be a midwife.

“So you’ll be there on the bed, probably on all fours…”

I fix my attention to a speck on the opposite wall. It is amazing how interesting a speck can be relative to some alternatives. I speculate on its origin. It could be dust-based, or a flick of paint from the recent decoration.

If you hold your eyes on it for long enough it appears to dance about. This is presumably an optical illusion. Although it could be a genuine dancing speck. I make a mental note to check it out at a later date. It could be worth lots of money given the right management advice.

“So do you have any particular wishes, Jonny?”

“You what?”

She appears to have asked me a question. I think hard. What I would really really like to do is to stop talking about epidurals and deliveries and bumholes and perhaps have a nice cup of tea and discuss rabbits or mice or washing machines or any other of my normal conversational things.

“Well really I think how I feel is that I think I am quite happy with whatever she decides,” I say assertively. I feel a glare on the side of my head.

Our hour is almost up, and it is time for me to get ready for bowls. I leave them talking about electronic pain relief systems and slip quietly out the door.

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