Designer.....? So behind her

Phew. What a week. And deffo not a good one. I haven't been able to sit down for seven days and although things are improving there are still remnants of frostbite, but it is almost behind me (oh but it were - behind me rather than in front of me, if you see what i mean). I have spent much of the week with a mirror in places you really shouldn't be putting mirrors. It was not so much 'Mirror mirror on the wall who is the fairest of them all?', as 'Mirror mirror, have they gone?'. But yes. Four of the infection sites I'm pleased to say are now clear which leaves one little blighter left but almost gone. Half way through the week I was desperate, pacing the floor.

"Nothing else for it", I confided to a friend on the 'phone. "I'm going to have to have the frostbite taken away".

"Well don't stress about that one", she said, "Designer vaginas are all the rage right now - quite the thing in fact. Quite overtaken silicone implants as it happens".

Now she wasn't exactly a friend, more of a 'we speak once a year acquaintance' actually. Because if she was a friend she would know that this was so not me. Umph. Cosmetic surgery may be a part of my future, but I hadn't planned to make that decision until everything went so far south it was no longer in my line of vision. This part of my anatomy though had never been up for debate. No. I would soldier on regardless and hope for the best. Pollyanna has nothing on me I thought, as I happily 'looked on the bright side'.

But then I got the e-mail from Ann Summers and that's what really annoyed me and made me feel less than satisfied about my lack of proper progress. 'National Orgasm Week' it screamed out and went on to list all the fascinating articles on sale this week to make each and every one of our orgasms particularly enjoyable.

Did they know? I huffed. Was this a wind up? Who could have told them? Because I certainly hadn't. And how the heck had I suddenly joined their mailing list?

The one time that I so don't want to even think about sex, or intimacy, or anything getting any closer to me than my favourite comfy pants (no, not even my party pants), they send me a message about some rampant rabbit and tell me I must (really must) celebrate national orgasm week. Well I'm sorry but I really have taken umbridge at that one. I'm not playing. I'm definitely not playing. But have a good week everyone and I hope you can do your bit for Ann regardless. I've nominated myself to the sidelines feeling more than a little put out.

Yes, I have frostbite (Having a real 'Bridget Jones' moment here....)

Well I've really done it this time. Boy does it hurt. My dodgy ligament in a rather dodgy place recently experienced a flare up of inflammation. Knowing the quickest way of easing the discomfort was to pop an ice pack on it, i duly did so. Ah. That's better I thought as I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up to find I'd wet the bed. Had I? Surely not. No, sure enough, it was the ice pack that had leaked. However as it had leaked onto the ligament (just above the pubic bone..um...yes) it had at the same time slipped down and leached out over what my daughter affectionately calls 'the twinkle'. Yes. Just there. And on waking I found I was stuck to it - or rather, it was stuck to me. I prized it off gingerly (didn't fancy spending the day walking around with an ice pack dangling precariously and painfully from there thank you very much - which seemed just about my only other option at this moment in time). So yes, I prized it off and yes, it was excruciating. But once off I thought, that's it, it's over, and life as I knew it carried on as normal.

But there was nothing normal about how I was feeling the next day when I got out of bed. As I walked to the bathroom I was aware that my 'twinkle' was very puffy and swollen - I could even feel it as I walked. Help I thought - what is going on? Hopping into the shower I put it to the back of my mind and carried on regardless. Only the next day that was nigh on impossible. I was in agony. There was nothing else for it. Donning my glasses and clutching a magnifying glass, all very Inspector Cluseau, i went 'down under', holding a mirror as close to the offending site as possible. Ah! Help! I'd turned a rather bright shade of purple!

Grabbing the 'phone, I made an appointment to see my doctor. This was not something I could fix on my own. 24 hours later and there I was, up on the doctor's table, legs akimbo and all ready for inspection.

"Yes, it's frostbite. You've given yourself an 'ice burn', and it's become infected" she quickly diagnosed.

Clutching my prescription for antibiotics I left the Surgery as gingerly as I'd arrived. So. It really is possible to get frost bite anywhere. Um. If I'd been a man this wouldn't have happened I thought. Could hardly stick an ice pack to your willy now could you. Could you? Let's not go there. Please. This is bad enough.

But there was some good news. Although my 'twinkle' was not feeling altogether twinkly at the moment, apparently I'd missed my clitoris by millimetres. Otherwise I guess I would have killed it. Gone. Dead. Forever. So thank you God. For small mercies. But not for a frost-bitten twinkle. No. Definitely not for that.