mostly david ephgrave

Wearing a mask while a GP examined my gentleman's area last week made me feel positively coquettish. There's a lot to be said for maintaining a sense of mystery. It's good to keep a little something back. Not your scrotum though, as that's public property, and should take the role of the face as a man's most identifying feature  in a mask-wearing pandemic  (though less of the "little something", thank you very much). It's just a more extreme version of the many awkward micro-moments provoked by the current circumstances (like your glasses steaming up because you're wearing a mask writ large). The doctor and I were the only two attendees of the world's most demeaning masquerade ball with the ball in question the most out-in-the-open part. The fact the doctor was a junior one at least leant a sense of learning to proceedings with me proud to assist their education, though I'm not sure if the chaperone also in the room was there for the GP or ...

Today, the DWP rescinded the PIP I'd been "awarded" for two years - that gave me a semblance of financial assistance and a sense that my health conditions of severe chronic depression, anxiety & vestibular migraine/vertigo were real - despite my providing more evidence than ever. For starters, they decided the detailed reports they'd received from the mental health team I've been under for seven years (including my psychiatrist, therapist & GP) and information on my prescribed medication & ENT analysis of my vertigo was no longer enough and I now required a PIP assessment. Despite expecting my evidence WITHOUT FAIL by a given date and absolute assurance I would attend my interview, they gave me under two weeks notice that I had to get to an appointment in Borehamwood (I don't drive). If I missed it/wasn't available, I had one more strike or my PIP would end. This morning, a letter arrived, telling me "I've looked into your claim ...

It’s always good to experience something new (he says, hyperbolically) and today I did just that, by having an ECG.  I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Like anyone with a query, my first port of call was the world’s most faultless resource, Wikipedia. The 22 nd word in their definition, ‘electrodes’, stood out like a sore thumb, leading to visions of cattle prods, or of Frankenstein’s monster being summoned to life. Thankfully, this didn’t perturb me, as I couldn’t either being offered on the NHS. The nurse warned me when I came in that she may need to shave my chest, as the adhesive pads they use to attach the electrodes to the body don’t always stick to hair. She said this before I’d removed my shirt, so I must let off a musky testosterone-filled Tom Selleck-like vibe. Either that, or she was looking for an alibi for her manscaping fetish. Whatever the case, it turned out not to be necessary, which was a relief, as I didn’t want to leave all pat...

A doctor squeezed my testicles today. I’ll do anything for attention. I should clarify that this was for health reasons. I wasn’t about to ‘put out’. I’d spotted a suspicious lump earlier in the week, and thought it would be best to seek a professional opinion. There’s nothing like advice from an expert. Of the whole human body, I mean; not just dangly bits. (His name was Doctor Cox though, so I’d gone to the right place.) While I’ve been examined before and feel comfortable with it (but not too comfortable), there’s no ignoring the fact that it’s an unusual situation. It’s not often that I drop my trousers within minutes of meeting somebody - and I seldom do it in an office. Also, few men have touched my genitals. None of them recreationally. Of course, me being me, I made a joke. As he sat on a small stool at my feet, adjusting his rubber gloves while I unfastened my belt, I said, ‘Typical day’. ‘It is for me,’ he laughed. ‘Perhaps it’s time to get a new job,’ I replied. ‘...