Bea Arthur In A Mini Skirt

If you've known me, you would likely be aware of what I fondly refer to as my Freaky Leg Muscle. It's something I like to tell people stemmed from a fleeting, through prosperous, flirtation with competitive hopscotch, that required me to engage in a strict and labourious exercise regime which was localised entirely around my left leg (the Jack-In-The-Box leg, as I like to think it to be known in the sport).

Now, while certain elements of this story may have fallen short of the truth - those being all of them - it seemed an entertaining enough explanation when placed against the slightly more honest "I don't know, it's just like that," and one I always longed to find someone gullible enough to believe. But it would seem that medical fact had other plans not shared by my age or gender.

Because now into this story we introduce a lump - a soft, inobtrustive thing protruding ever so slightly from the back of my calf, as though it was one-breasted, pre-pubescent girl burgeoning slowly into lonely, one-breasted womanhood.

This lump had been there for as long as I could remember having legs, which stretches back to when I was thirteen - prior to that, I cannot speak with any great confidence in accounting for my appendages. With the lump seemingly having no designs on plotting my death in that period of time, it hardly seemed a concern. Suddenly though, last week, I wake up to find that the lump has solidified somewhat. The plot was suddenly thickening, as was, quite possibly, some of my blood.

What could it be? Had a spider laid its babies in there, waiting for them to spew forth from my leg in a scene designed to rob an arachnophobic of all their mental faculties? Possibly. But when lumps are involved, no matter how confident you are that it's nothing to be concerned about, the back of the mind still wanders to more sinister options, leaving you to convince yourself that it's not a tumor, in the manner that only the thick, Austrian-accented voice of a kindergarten teacher/cop can do justice to.

Now, let's take this moment to assure you, the anxious reader, that the conclusion to this tale is more immasculating than it is detrimental to my health. And now that you are finished being overcome with relief, we shall continue.

It seemed the time had come to make use of my own personal Medicare card, which, as of yet, had been doing nothing more than adorning the inside of wallet in nothing more than a decorative role. So off to the doctors I travelled, to the audible sighs of my finances, and after some squarely PG-rated leg fondling, I was referred to go and get an ultrasound on my leg (a lone tear ran down my finances' cheek). Ooh, exciting! Was it a boy? Was it a girl? I didn't know, but it looked like it was time to consider turning the garage into a nursery.

So as we fast-forward 24 hours, there I sit, pants leg hiked up to reveal a pasty, hairy thigh, as the ultrasoundist - which I admit may not be her official title - spread a cold gel up and down my leg in a manner that I have no doubt some fetishists enjoy. The moment of truth was here. What were the inner workings of Mysterious Lump.

A blood clot, brought on by thrombosis. Hmm, a little bit anticlimactic, don't you think? Ah, but here is where things - one of those being my dignity - take an interesting turn.

She continued ultrasounding my leg with quite the intrigued air lingering about her, staring at the grey, indistiguishable blobs on the screen. Then, in what I think could have been done as a far more dramatic gesture, stood and announced she would be back in a minute.

Now, some advice for any budding ultrasoundists out there: If you've already deduced already that what you've seen, regardless of how odd it may be, is nothing to madly panic over, do not do what this woman did. Because, you see, she returned with a radiologist - a fact I deduced from him saying "I'm the clinic's radiologist," and me extrapolating the information from that. So, as you may well imagine, when you're currently having a lump in your leg scanned, the introduction of a radiologist into this proceedings hardly does wonders for stress levels.

Now, while I do suspect that doctors get some kind of sick amusement out of these scenarios - which, yes, I would too if I were in their position - they at least didn't keep me wondering for too long. But how could you, when you had the chance to tell a 24-year-old male that it would seem that he has varicose veins.

That's funny, I don't remember turning into a 65-year-old woman.

I didn't watch too much Golden Girls as a child, so I'm not entirely sure how this happened. They say congenital, which basically means thanks a lot, family. But I can honestly say that I did not expect the cause of my Freaky Leg to be that it longs for bingo halls and supportive hosiery.

So where too now for me and Great Aunt Freaky Leg Muscle? Who knows. A return journey to the doctors tomorrow will enlighten me as to whether it's necessary for anything to be done about it. They don't really think too much would be necessary, being that it appears I've had a leg full of menopause for a long time with no adverse affects.

Personally, I'm good with that, because the extreme option to deal with it is that they strip the veins. As charming as that sounds, I only take my strip with a 'per' on the end of it, tossed a pair of tassles and centred around a pole, firetruck or paeleontology lecture.