Memoirs of a sinner....

Reading Meegan’s recent post about her flu jab has reminded me of something that happened to me the last time I had tonsillitis. I was living in Balaclava, a suburb of Melbourne with a large Jewish community (the local takeaway was called “Kosher Express”). Many in this community were Orthodox, and therefore quite conservative.

I had to go and visit a local doctor to get a penicillin injection. I’d already had one the day before at a different surgery in the city, which had left me with a large bruise on my arse cheek. As I wasn’t registered at the surgery in Balaclava, I had to go through a short lifestyle questionnaire with the female doctor, where I shamefacedly lied about how much exercise I did and the number of units of alcohol I drunk.

When it came to giving my occupation, I couldn’t bring myself to use the word “barmaid”, and “bartender” has a bit of a “tree surgeon” ring about it (I once worked in a pub in Brisbane where all of the staff were referred to as “drinking consultants”) so I simply said that I worked in a bar.

Maybe I’m a little naïve, but I would have thought that if somebody told you they worked in a bar, you would assume they simply worked behind the bar serving drinks, especially if you lived in such a conservative area. Therefore I was a little surprised when after giving me my injection and leaving a symmetrical bruise on my other arse cheek, the doctor said:

“It’s a good job you’re signed off with tonsillitis, because those bruises wouldn’t look very good when you go to work.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, those bruises would be quite obvious when you’re wearing a g-string.”

It would seem that the nice lady doctor assumed that, as I worked in such a sinful establishment as a bar, I must be an exotic dancer. The fact that, having dragged myself out of bed with tonsillitis, the glamour rating of my outfit was only half a grade above fluffy pyjamas (i.e. I had shoes on), that I was at the time on the sturdy side of “Rubenesque”, and that she had just personally witnessed my cellulite in all its glory had not seemed to have had any effect on the conclusion she had reached regarding my occupation.

(The irony that one of my flatmates was an exotic dancer and could get her leg behind her head while wearing 6 inch heeled perspex mules was not lost on me.)