A taste of what's to come from Yvonne

Peering over my Greggs haul

Thanks to a chat with a friend, I’ve realised that I don’t pee myself after a swim. I just have a fanny like a pair of bellows that sucks up water as I go, then slowly releases it later. Where it stores the water, who knows. Maybe it has a wee tank tucked up there beside my Mirena coil.

On reflection, I should have guessed all of the above because this is the same fanny that sucked up the string of said Mirena coil. It’s a voracious bugger in all the wrong ways. Worse, after having to be knocked out and operated on to get the first coil replaced, the NHS kindly made the string of the new one about a foot long! It was practically dragging on the ground behind me. Small kittens were chasing me down the street. I daren’t try swimming in open waters lest I return with two trout and a large haddock dangling from my nether-yay.

Just a thought - maybe the long string isn’t for the coil at all. Perhaps the old vajayjay nearly took the fingers off the fanny doctor while I was under the anaesthetic, and he thought my, that’s a lively one, so he popped in an extra long string for the water tank to save himself a job later. Give it a tug to empty the tank and dechlorinate the fandango. Sorted. Ooh, they’re cunning, these fanny doctors.

Anyway, I went for a swim at six this morning, so I’m feeling all virtuous. Well, that is if you ignore the bacon roll and the yum-yum from Greggs afterwards (which I do). For the benefit of non-Brits, Greggs is a national chain of bakeries and we are all weirdly fond of it. I should also add for the benefit of non-Brits that my fanny is not my derrière (and only two people are weirdly fond of it).

Where was I? Oh yes, Greggs. Turns out there’s a regular morning workman clientele, let’s call them Greggsters, who know what they want and have no patience for ditherers who only came in for a croissant and suddenly grew eyes bigger than her belly. So, when the assistant asked if I wanted my bacon with brown, and I assumed she meant brown bread and said yes, and it turned out she meant brown sauce  and I moaned, and she obligingly made another one…when all that stuff happened, the fifty seasoned Greggsters in the queue behind me heaved a collective, impatient sigh. This set me to dithering even more, and I managed to drop my yum-yums.

What is the problem, I hear you say. Why are you telling me about the grumpy Greggsters? Fair question. And, on behalf of (ahem) a friend, I have one for you. Have you ever bent down to pick up a yum-yum, had your tank trap door open and end up looking like you’ve pissed yourself in the middle of Greggs?

Nope? Only me then.