I’m sitting in the waiting room waiting for a mammogram. Just a routine one – my second. The first one was two years ago, when I turned 50. That and the first colon cancer screening. It’s good that we get tested for all these things but, once again, Spanish health care surprises me.

I see that the radiographer conducting the mammogram is the same man as last time. He’s about my age, has a harried look about him, but I think it’s just because of his unkempt hair. The first time, I found it odd that (a) it was a man and (b) there was no female nurse or assistant in the room. At least I had a little changing room where I could strip off in private, unlike the time I went to the hospital a few years ago and had to drop my trousers in front of two males doctors (again, no female members of staff present) like some supremely untalented Gypsy Rose Lee.

Last time I came for a mammogram, the radiographer conducted a jolly conversation with me about the state of Irish rugby (something about which I know absolutely nothing) while he placed each of my boobs on the machine and squished and squeezed them into position. I guess the surreality of it all took my mind off the physical and emotional discomfort!! I wonder what he’ll talk about this time? I’m next in line…I’ll soon find out.

PS…I’m home now. He discussed the time of the once daily bus to Sanlúcar. Now that’s a topic I know something about.