The Unfathomable Mystery of the Disappearing Prophylactic

Here it is - the one you've been waiting for. It's not strictly an internet dating story, well it is, but it isn't - Stella met this guy on the internet, so by my reckoning it counts. Oh and by the way, she'd like me to make clear that this is someone she's been seeing for some considerable time, and the brief glimpse into the website last week was just to show me someone who'd sent her a weird message. Most pleased we got that straight.

On Friday afternoon, while I was gently snoozing on the sofa with the Royal Wedding on for background noise, she phoned me from the doctor's.

'Oh my God! I think I could be pregnant!'
'What? WHAT?'
'I'm at the surgery getting the morning after pill!'

It transpires that she and Monsieur Merveilleux, after a night of mattress mambo, fell asleep in post-coital bliss, having not bothered to dispose of the condom and mucky contents thereof. In the morning when they woke up, they tried to find it. Nowhere! The duvet and pillows were all examined and subsequently stripped; they got on their hands and knees and went through every inch of carpet, under all the furniture, into the wardrobe; they scrutinised the walls, ceiling and window panes to see if it had stuck to one of them (I know what you're thinking - so, was I! What is she like?!? What exactly were they doing to produce such a wide range of possibilities? Actually, I don't want to know.)

Finally, they gave up the search. The condom had vanished!

Well, clearly there was only one place it could be, and as soon as he left, croissants and cafe having been served, she probed within. Nope! Nothing!

Five hours after the first phone call, she contacted me again.

'I'm at the hospital. Something's wrong.'
'What's the matter?'
'I'm really not comfortable and there's a bit of a rubbery pong,' she said.

It's difficult to know what level of sympathy to display when faced with such a comment, so - you know - I burst out laughing.

'Not amused, Bette. I'm at the gum clinic, ' she said. Eh? What? Why would anybody go to the gum clinic to have a condom removed? Where does gingivitis come into this?

'Not the gum clinic, you moron,' she said. 'The GUM clinic - Gyno-Urinary Medicine. Bloody hell, Bette. Where've you been for the past 40 years?' Clearly not in the same places as you have, Stella!  More's the pity...

Stella explained she had already thoroughly inspected within, and that her investigation had proved fruitless. An extremely competent and diplomatic nurse asked whether Stella and partner had (perhaps) been drunk the night before, and had (perhaps) failed (perhaps) to make appropriate use of a johny in their frenzied rush for rumpy pumpy.

'Madam!' said Stella, prickly with justifiable indignation. 'Are you calling me a tramp and a lush?'  Sorry - no, she didn't - it's the story teller in me... I can just imagine her saying that though!

Anyway, the nurse made her drop her kecks and spread 'em. A three minute rummage later, during which Stella said she thought the nurse's digital (in the original sense of the word) attempts to chart a course to her liver nearly made her faint, the nurse exclaimed 'Bingo! Got ya! It's hooked right right behind your cervix. Nobody could have found that.'

Once the offending item was removed, the nurse then asked Stella whether she'd also like to be tested for STDs while she was there. Such serendipity! A BOGOF opportunity! Those of you who know Stella know that she is Freebie Queen; two minutes at the Clarin's counter and she's managed to bamboozle the assistant into giving her a carrier bag full of samples.  Stella unsurprisingly accepted.

My dear friends, family and followers, I am pleased to report that she is clean as Kim and Aggie's u-bend.

Oh, finally, a little aside - Stella, you really are a brilliant mate for letting me tell this story. Ta, you old trollop. I'll stretch to a Ploughman's.   xx :)