Got zapped properly for the first time yesterday. It was little different to the dummy run. The key difference being the radiotherapists run out the room for the actual zapping and you lie there, listening to cheesy music being piped in, knowing they are running things from a remote camera.
The lights on the wall flick from innocent yellow to the lit up bright red 'Beam On' signs with a nasty industrial sounding continuous alarm droning to alert you to it's presence.
The zapping is meant to just focus the beams on a localised, highly specific area of my body which is carefully demarcated by tattoos and laser beams. It seems strangely over-cautious that they go to such lengths to avoid the room and warn people the beam is on. Then again, they do 20 of these a day, I only do one.
First the machine beams from the left hand side. Then it moves around you on it's trajectory, settles into position and beams from the right. All the while, the cheesy music is not letting up.
The soundtrack to yesterday's zapping?
"Move Closer" by Phyllis Nelson.
Takes me right back to 1985: the launch of EastEnders; watching videos of Bob Geldof swinging his arms around at Live Aid; and swooning over the strangely eyebrowed Becker winning Wimbledon.
Afterwards I popped into John Lewis, bought some stretchy cropped top bras from Sloggi. The black lace goes back in the drawer for the next eight weeks. I need to be kind to my skin. While I'm there I pop into the haberdashery department to buy some wool to knit a friend a scraf with.
I left the shop with a bag of knitting wool and some very dull bras. How did life ever come to this?