‘Well . . .’ I slowly swung my legs over the side of the gurney and slithered to the floor like an otter down a riverbank. ‘There is one other . . . It’s a bit embarrassing . . .’

‘Are you talking about the carpet burn on the end of your nose?’ the doctor inquired. ‘I’ve already clocked that. Dash of Savlon and perhaps some better judgement.’

‘It’s a sheet burn, if you must know. And no, I didn’t get it that way. It was just a mistimed dive-bomb manoeuvre to ensure minimum naked exposure in front of a younger man, which I don’t really want to go into . . . Or it could be a disco ball graze, I’m not sure.’

‘Uh-huh,’ the doctor said, warily.

‘And, well, thing is . . .’ I paused, too mortified to mention it. ‘I have something similar . . . at the other end.’

‘Do you want me to take a look?’

‘Good god, no! I’m just a bit swollen and irritated. Probably an allergic reaction to aftershave.’

‘Cheap aftershave can inflame the sensitive tissue of the clitoris. Fragrance sensitivity is an adverse reaction to chemicals in scented products, causing redness, swelling and vesicles, or skin rashes. Does that sound like what you’re experiencing?’ he asked, matter-of-factly, pen poised.

‘Um, yes, probably. His aftershave did make my nose get itchy and irritable, too, you know, when we were kissing . . . But do you have to write that on my notes?’

‘What? Itchy nose?’ he teased. ‘Oh, you mean “irritated clitoris”. Well, I could use a euphemistic alternative from the slang of my Queensland youth. Love button, devil’s doorbell, clitty litter, crotch nipple . . .’ He counted expressions off on his fingers. ‘Clisaurus, quimberry, cherry chapstick, love nub. We’re so eloquent in the Deep North. But, if you like, I could just limit my clinical record to your groin strain. I’ll write you a prescription for some soothing steroidal anti-itch cream for the . . .’

‘Hooded prawn?’ I suggested, lowering myself gently onto the edge of flesh-coloured chair facing him. ‘We’re pretty eloquent in my neck of the woods too.’

He only smiled with a corner of his mouth but there was a twinkle in his eye – the ophthalmic version of a broad grin. As the doctor rummaged through his desk drawer for his prescription pad, he added, ‘A cool wet compress will also help, plus avoiding the, um, irritant. So, in other words, take it easy on the disco dancing, toy-boy consumption and bottomless vino. Wine stoppers were invented for a reason, you know.’

I bristled at his condescension – one of the very reasons I’d gone off men. ‘Yes, sure. I have two weeks of my vacation left, so what better time to give up wine and sex? I mean,’ I added, sarcastically, ‘there’s still masturbation and reading, right?’

The doctor looked up from his prescription pad. ‘I only like one of those activities.’

‘Oh?’ I shot back, ‘I didn’t realise you’re dyslexic. How sad.’