‘Twill be the day before Christmas, when all through the streets
People will be rushing, buying last minute treats
But Womb For Improvement will miss this preparation
As I’ll be in hospital for a womb-cleaning operation
I didn’t write to Santa, he didn’t get my letter
I’d emailed the nurses, but then gone one better
A plea to the Doc with my one festive wish
Brought a Christmas Eve appointment and an end to anguish
At half seven in the morning I’ll arrive, nill by mouth
And the doctor’s attentions will head further south
He’ll scurry up my chimney and clear out my womb
In the hope it’ll kick start next year’s Baby Boom
I have no idea how I’ll feel the next day
This site seems to think that I should be OK
But I suspect it’ll scupper my chance to indulge
How better to bypass the post-Christmas bulge?
This time apologies must go to, um, Clement Clarke Moore. And for those of you groaning at the back, I promise that this is the last poem post I'll do for a while (well the next date that lends itself to it is Burns Night in January and I don't think I could tackle 'Ode to a Haggis').
And for those who found the post a little obtuse: I emailed my consultant and his secretary called within hours, giving me an appointment for the 24 of December.