Several months ago I went and got all my moles checked over at the skin cancer clinic. My chatty doctor waved at the scary machine in the corner and said, “We only get that out if we’re worried about a mole and we need to take a photo to make comparisons and for tests.”
The other night, when Adam went (and I accompanied him because God Forbid! he visit the doctor alone) his attending doctor took one look at a particular mole on his arm and immediately led him over to the Scary Machine in the Corner.
Under the ultra-zoom of the lens, blown up to many times it’s own size, it did look…abnormal. Brown/black with a puffy mound in one corner, which reminded me off those puff-pens which were all the craze in primary school and we used to bake our sneakers in the oven with all our arty adornments bloating yeastily within.
Dimensions were taken, promises made about returning in three months time, and we were out of there.
So, three months. How slow will that go, you reckon?
[My moles were all fine, BTW.]
