A good housewife takes care of her health, because who else is going to make dinner? For me, this involves getting myself along to the Sydney Melanoma Unit every six months to get my skin looked at. The Melanoma Unit is situated next to a large teaching hospital, which adjoins the city’s oldest university, which is down the road from a busy and popular shopping strip. You may think that these facilities may warrant some extra parking around the place, but this is Sydney, so you would be wrong. You may also think that I should hop on a bus to get to my appointment, but once again, no. In the time it would take me to get from my house to the Melanoma Unit by bus I could jump in my car, drive to Glebe, purchase two rubber chickens, drive to a suburb adjoining that which the hospital is in, walk to Campos Coffee (the original, not the many franchises which have sprung up around the place), purchase a large skim flat white, walk to the Unit and still have fifteen minutes spare.
I spent that fifteen minutes enjoying my coffee while sympathizing with the lady at reception who was dealing with an elderly patient who wasn’t happy with her bill or completely convinced that she should come in for her next appointment. At one point she was waving a fistful of shopper dockets. The receptionist was incredibly patient, going through every item, drawing her a map of where her next appointment would be, even holding her hand and telling her not to worry. One of the many many jobs I would be very poor at.
I think the coffee at Campos has changed. It’s still full of the quiet authority that makes my kidneys wriggle, but was a little smoother than usual, failing to take any skin off the back of my throat. I think I prefer it to the original.
The appointment itself was mercifully brief. I strip down to my Victoria’s Secret underwear, the doctor gets out a bright light and a magnifying glass and examines every mole on my body, then squeezes various bits of my lymphatic system. I never know what to say on these occasions, not being skilled at small talk at the best of times, and I’m further stymied by her thick French accent, so I smile and say yes a bit and try not to think of Inspector Clouseau. A rubber chicken may have broken the ice, I should have brought it in.
I’m all clear again and have no further lumps or bumps than I should have. I give them a vial of blood and farewell them until next Easter. I resist the urge to spend some quality time in King Street because I have to get home and make more breadsticks, they were a huge success.