Either I had my radiotherapy planning appointment or I was abducted by aliens. For an actually-pretty-serious hospital appointment, I found this one the most entertaining yet. It was like a cross between Star Trek and the ‘Cartman Gets an Anal Probe’ episode of South Park. Except instead of a satellite up my jacksie, I’ve been given three very questionable-looking tattoos on my chest. I’d tell you that they’re preferable to an anal probe but actually I’m not so sure, given that I now look like someone’s been playing dot-to-dot in my cleavage with a blue biro. The rest of the planning appointment was much more space age, thankfully. You gown up and lie topless on a black leather bed (not as S&M as it sounds, I assure you) in the middle of a huge, futuristic room that could easily have dual use as a recording studio on the Starship Enterprise. Then the radiographer versions of Captain Kirk and Uhura come out from behind the mixing desk to press buttons on a bunch of different computers that whirr around your body before fixing you into an unnatural position (again, not in a kinky way) that you’ve got to stay in for the next fifty minutes, and for each subsequent twenty-minute radiotherapy session.
