Where the sun don't shine

I have known my Crohn's specialist for longer than my husband. We have a good relationship, I understand my condition, and he respects my opinions and decisions. I appreciate the constraints he works under. We have ridden the test/prescription/funding/admission merry go round many times.
I had an appointment yesterday morning to sort out some drugs and discuss the strategy for the tests I'm having tomorrow. Becuase he knows I will answer questions with more than a grunt, he occasionally throws me a medical student to play with a junior doctor on rotation. This mornings was a very professional and earnest young chap with an African accent. We discuss various things. After a few minutes, my consultant enters. I tell him that the letter about my procedure took several weeks to arrive, so in the interim, I rang the Gastro unit myself and booked a slot.

Him: So, 1.30 on Friday then..I'll ensure the red carpet is out.
Me: If you could. And I'd prefer the string quartet in the corner this time.
Hin: Fine. And the potted palms?
Me: Oh, as before

The junior doctor looks a little confused, but relaxes as we discuss the nitty gritty of canulas and sedation.So this time tomorrow, I will be sleeping off the finest Class A drugs the NHS has to offer, and hopefully be a bit further forward with the latest round of treatment.

Secretly, I'm a bit scared. I'm having an ileoscopy (camera in stoma) colonoscopy (camera up the bum) and endoscopy (camera down the throat into stomach). The first two don't bother me at all. I've had them before, and while I wouldn't recommend them for a fun night out, they are ok. It's the third one. I'm just not keen on something down my throat. At all.

The part of my brain that is rational knows that these tests are necessary and sensible. They will give a clear idea of how my disease is behaving, and any added complications such as ulcers, which will afect the choice of treatment.

The part of my brain that is still four years old knows that I don't want to do this. I want to go to the seaside and eat chips.

The part of my brain that is a gobby socialist knows that if I was rich and living in London, I wouldn't be having anything put inside me. I would be having a scan.

And the part of my brain that gets me through everyday life knows that I will grin and bear it and try not to say 'F***' in front of my good doctor.