Here’s a question for you ladies…

What do you call a girl who shows her knockers to 12 men she’s never met before in under 2 hours and gets a £10 note for the pleasure?

Well before you get too carried away with the name suggestions, I’d like to point out that this is the bizarre way in which I spent this afternoon.

I had been asked some time ago if I would volunteer to be a “mystery patient” for final year medical student exams. I would need to be present in a consulting room for an hour and a half whilst a series of fledgling doctors attempted to examine me and diagnose what I am suffering from. Well it seemed as good a way as any to earn a tenner so I said “yep count me in” and thought no more about it.

So today I turned up at 12.30pm as requested and immediately knew that I’d arrived on the right floor due to the presence of about 5000 sweaty and shaky young students en masse outside the clinic. I did feel a little sorry for them but have to say I also felt unfairly smug in a way that only someone who knows they never need take an exam again in their life can feel when sitting on the other side of the examination fence.

On arrival I was introduced to the male respiratory consultant (nearing retirement age) who was to be present throughout the examinations and who would pose questions to the students as appropriate. We’ll call him Dr Eye – the reason being that he had a very un-nerving facial tick which resulted in him appearing to be constantly winking and leering at me. This was particularly off-putting when accompanied by the request that I would present as bare-chested for both his initial examination there and then and also for all the following student examinations. So much for congratulating myself for remembering to wear not only underwear that looked pretty decent but that actually matched (aka “hospital underwear”)…

Dr Eye winked his way through his examination of me, asked a few questions and then announced that I was probably going to give a few of the students a run for their money in trying to establish what was wrong with me. (At this point I actually began to feel quite sorry for all those poor students and decided that an odd cough along with plenty of very deeply exhaled crackly breaths might be in order to help them as much as I could). There was then a period of time where both of us tried to make conversation and ignore the fact that we were perfect strangers, had nothing in common and he had already seen my tits at close range.

Thankfully after 5 minutes a handbell started being rung very loudly and suddenly in came the first (and incredibly nervous) student. There began what was to become one of the most tedious hour and a half ever, as the same procedure was repeated again and again and again every 10 minutes…

• Bell rings, in comes shaky/nervous/clammy-handed student
• Student gives a sticker to the examiner, is introduced to me and asked to examine my respiratory system and report their findings
• Student works their way round my body checking my fingers, pulse, breathing rate, squashing my finger tips, poking my windpipe, jabbing their fingers in my neck, banging areas of my chest, looking in my eyes, looking in my mouth, bizarrely asking me to say “99” about 15 times, asking me to breathe in and out and in and out and in and out….you get the picture.
• After 5 minutes the student is asked to report their findings
• Examiner asks them probing (and very repetitive) questions
• Bell rings, student A departs and student B walks straight in

It was quite fun to start with as I went through the examination procedures, smiled at their constantly shaking hands and sweaty, clammy palms and waited excitedly to find out if they ‘had worked me out’. But after about the second or third examination it became utterly boring and strangely exhausting.

Soon a mantra had set in and one examination was blending into the next. Hands out, hands down, mouth open, mouth shut, neck poked, tongue up, tongue down, breathe in, breathe out, sit up, lie back, breath in, breathe out, say 99, say 99, say 99, say 99, breathe in, breathe out, turn your head, look in your eyes, sit up again, lie back again, on and on and on…..

Around about 20 minutes in, the bizarreness of the situation struck me. Here I am stark naked from the waist up whilst I procession of (mostly male) students tramp in and out, gawp at my breasts and man-handle my chest whilst a 60-year old man beside them winks at me non-stop. At one point there were 3 men in the room (Dr Eye, a shaky student and an external examiner). All in a room 6ft by 8ft and all with their eyes squarely focussed on my knockers. In what other situation in life would I agree to that?! In fact thinking about it now, I’ve never in my adult life had to have a chest examination sans brassiere…I’m beginning to wonder if the examiner just requested that to liven up what he said himself was going to be “a very boring afternoon”…?

Some of the students were noticeably better than others. A few got in my bad books by not even washing their hands before examining me, one in particular was incredibly rough and made me wince in pain with his prodding and a few struggled to find the CF diagnosis. However some were clearly set to become the consultants of the future, had an excellent bedside manner, were very confident and clearly knew their stuff. In particular one young lady in a bright pink striped shirt stood out as knowing exactly what she was talking about. She diagnosed CF very early on and answered every question asked of her to perfection. When she left the room the examiner and I commented to each other on how she was miles ahead of rest on her CF diagnostic skills and knowledge.

Finally 3.30pm came round and the final handbell was shaken. At that point a woman with a clipboard walked into the room, handed me a brown envelope with £10 stuffed in it and thanked me for my attendance. I have to say that at that moment, as I tried to cover up what was left of my modesty, grabbing the money and reaching out for my clothes, it felt more than a teeny bit seedy! Dr Eye was still busy filling in his paperwork, so with a sigh of relief I threw my clothes back on and legged it out of the boiling room for a drink and some fresh air. As I walked past all the students in the corridor I wished I could bump into the pink-striped shirt girl just to tell her how incredibly well she had done.

I had just headed off when my mobile rang. It was Emily and she had clearly developed some scarily accurate telepathic skills.

“Emma – are you at the BRI hospital by any chance?”

“Errr…yes I am actually”

“Have you by any chance been being examined by medical students this afternoon”

“Errr…yes I have actually”

“Excellent! My ex-flatmate Amy was just examining you an hour ago!”

How weird a co-incidence is that?! Emily spent 3 years living with Amy and apparently I’ve been in the same room as her before (though I’m not entirely sure where – perhaps at Emily’s wedding?) And even more amazingly, she was the one in the bright pink striped shirt who impressed both the examiner and myself so much with her in-depth knowledge of CF. Now I wonder why that might be....? If she passes her exams she owes you a very special present Em!

I’ve since recounted to Brad how today I had my chest felt up by 12 strange men in return for a tenner. He reckons I was underpaid….bless him, he really does have the patience of a saint!