A few months ago, just before Christmas, I had a smear test. It came back showing signs of abnormalities—for the third time. So off I went for a colposcopy. Now, I’ve always avoided talking about this kind of thing in my comedy routines because, let’s face it, the moment a female comedian says the word “vagina” eyes start rolling. But honestly? This needs talking about.
The hospital visit started as awkwardly as expected. I was handed a large piece of paper—because apparently, dignity doesn’t fit the NHS budget anymore—and told to wrap it around me once I’d removed the bottom half of my clothes. Standing there in my thick black socks and paper wrap, I shuffled back out, feeling like a school art project gone wrong.
The nurse was lovely and tried to make me feel comfortable. She told me to “hop up” onto the medieval looking device they call a couch. You have to scoot your bum to the very edge and put your feet into stirrups while hoping you don’t fall off and land in a heap of humiliation. The consultant arrived and got to work with the speculum, instruments clinking like she was assembling flat–pack furniture.
I lay there, legs akimbo, while the nurse attempted small talk. “What do you do for a living?” she asked. “I’m a stand–up comedian,” I replied, though I wasn’t feeling particularly funny at that moment. Then she launched into a monologue about Frank Skinner while the consultant muttered and huffed and puffed about my cervix. It was surreal.
Eventually, the consultant stood up, visibly frustrated. “That is an unsatisfactory cervix,” she declared, like I’d just failed a GCSE. “This happens in postmenopausal women. There’s nothing to sample. We’ll bring you back in six months.“
Hang on….
What??
Postmenopausal??
I wasn’t ready for that.
When I asked the nurse for clarification, she said, “Well, sometimes they can tell because at that point the cervix sort of… well… shrivels.” That word. Oh my god. I think, in that moment, my soul did the same.
Once home, I broke down in tears. My son, poor soul, tried to comfort me as I sobbed, “I can’t have babies anymore!” How ridiculous. I’m 53 and have three grown kids. But, of course, it wasn’t actually about wanting more babies. It was about how bluntly the news hit me: as if I was past my sell by date. I’d expired.
Then, as if on cue, I remembered a comment from some delightful man on TikTok. I’d posted a silly video, and he kindly informed me, “Nice jowls.” Now, every time I look in the mirror, I hear his voice. Gravity and TikTok trolls—the ultimate combo.
By the next morning, I’d booked a Botox appointment. I sat in the chair asking, “What can you do about these jowls?” I know that’s crazy. But I don’t want to droop and shrivel. It feels as though parts of me are literally disappearing. So here I am, clinging to Botox and dignity.
Ads aimed at women my age wind me up too. There’s one assumption: we’re all swimming around in oceans of our own piss. And another: our vaginas are desert wastelands. For the record, I am perfectly continent and pleasantly squishy.
So, here’s the reality: if this is life after menopause, then I’m incredibly lucky. I’ve experienced none of the horrors that my friends have gone through and are going through. Even if my cervix is doing a Dorian Gray on me.
Listen to my Avoid Excessive Cleavage podcasts.