The prep

That time has come again.

I’m off to have my front bottom (and other womanly parts) inspected and assessed by a ‘lady doctor’.

I say a ‘lady doctor’ but actually, he’s a man.

I have been busy preparing myself. Not mentally for strange tools (and hands) invading my exclusive area. No. I’m past all of that. Having had four children.

No. I’ve been having to make myself respectable. I’ve had a bath. Soaked all of my wobbly and flappy bits. Washed my hair. Both on my head and on my…

And then I noticed that my cropped bush had re-identified itself as a forest.

I pranced nakedly through the house, frightening children, on the search for my husbands trimmer.

As you do.

If I listed my talents to you, evidently, ‘Using a trimmer’ could not be itemized at all.

It is that bad.

There are long bits and short bits. Baldy areas and some (areas) that still look rather full.

The clock had tick-tocked and the buzz of the trimmer had slowed to almost nothing.

I examined my own handiwork from an upside down position and I can tell you, were I a real inspector of such works, I would have stamped a ‘Fail’ on the (un)finished product.

Nerves aplenty at the mere thought of revealing my artwork, I set off with the words of my wise teenage daughter swirling around in my head, “Just pretend it’s supposed to look like that. No nervous babbling!”

“No. There’s no need to mention it’s a DIY job, at all!”