Seated opposite me there is a small woman in a green sari. Her son is about five and she is hand feeding him morsels from a clear tupperware box. The receptionist brings me tea and a clipboard with the forms attached and she lends me her pen which is silver and heavy. I flick through waiting room magazines. My name is called and as I stand up, the small woman stops and stares at me. I remember thinking how very lovely her lashes are. I had already been told that I should be very respectful and call him Doctor. I shake the hand of the white-haired man and give a little half-bow and he acknowledges my show of politeness by nodding slowly then points to the chair. I sit down. He has kind eyes. The examination is brief; he asks me if I have any questions or concerns and I reply no – that everything has been explained to me just fine (and I don't want to be any trouble) and then he takes a piece of square paper from the pile on his desk, scribbles something down, opens a small cubbyhole which is set in the wall and places the note inside it. Then he gestures to a sort of dressing area where there is a blue folding screen and says that I should change now as it will be easier for me later to get to the other side. When I reappear, I notice the room has been rearranged and there are two rows of chairs and sitting on the chairs are my parents, close family and friends. They are smiling at me encouragingly. I turn to them and give them a little wave. The doctor asks if I am ready now, and I say yes and lie down in my white nightie and offer him my arm.