It started on the commute into work. Some mild discomfort. ‘ Oh well,’ I thought, ‘better buy some cranberry juice and knock it on the head.’ What a fool.
By mid-afternoon, I was peeing every five minutes. Sometimes a river of fire. Sometimes drips of burning oil. And blood. I know this is gross, but don’t blame me, blame the person who invented cystitis.
I had no idea it could be so hardcore. On my journey home, I nearly peed in the street. Twice. I had to rush into a department store, thinking, ‘If this happens before I get to the bathroom, I am going to go up in flames like Joan of Arc in the men’s trouser department, set alight like a human torch by my own genitals.’
I obviously then bought some of those rank cystitis sachets, gulping one down before I got on the tube. By this point, I felt like I was carrying a petrol bomb in my vagina. Getting home was like reaching the summit of Everest. I practically took a photo of myself waving a flag that said, ‘I MADE IT.’
Christ, it makes you feel ill. Your once nice vagina turns into an evil, burning hellhole. And you have to breathe heavily when you pee as if you’re giving birth to a fireball baby.
Then what happens is, the sachets work, and you feel a bit better and tell your friends who run The Midult that you were almost burnt at the stake by your own vagina yesterday and they have hysterics and ask you to write about it. So they are to blame that you are even reading about this.