The land of plenty


When I was at the doctor the other day to get yet another scan of my ovaries (which seem to be forever protesting that they have been producing eggs for 25 years to no avail actually no wonder they are pissed off), my doctor rather nonchalantly asked me how my love life was going. He has known me for years and has graciously listened to my many fears – some real, the majority imagined – over that time.

Well, I said, I haven’t had sex for so long I think that my hymen may have re-grown. Now it might seem odd that I joke about my hymen with my doctor, but I’ve had some very interesting conversations with this medico since I darkened his door with my plethora of imagined illnesses many years ago.

He is also a very cool dude. In fact, he often recites the many warnings associated with taking the pill in rapid-fire rap-form whenever I have to get a new script from him. Although, my previous comment about my utter lack of any action whatsoever makes me realise that continuing to take the pill is, at best, wishful thinking and, at worst, rather delusional.

Anyway, my comment about regenerating body parts made him laugh, but he did point out that it was also medically impossible. What about Bob, he asked me. Bob? Who’s Bob? Are you going to set me up with one of your medical mates who’s name happens to be Bob, I asked wishfully. No, he said deadpan, B.O.B – Battery Operated Boyfriend.

Oh excellent, I said. Is that what my life has come too? Maybe the statistics about over 40s are true? I’m destined for a lifetime of sexy nights in bed with a “boyfriend” who hums and buzzes, rather than one who whispers sweet nothings in my ear, or one who can speak at all for that matter.

No, I said to my doctor’s naively helpful suggestion. I am not going to purchase a B.O.B. That seems rather defeatist if you ask me and I have always considered myself a (sometimes-misguided) optimist. Nope, I said, I have a much better plan. A very cunning plan. I have purchased a flight to Christchurch.

My doctor was a bit taken aback. As expected in all fairness. Christchurch, he asked. Yes, Christchurch, I said. My hometown, the place that I fled nearly 20 years ago, has four men to every woman. It’s turned into the Land of Plenty. Hallelujah!

You see, two years on from the Christchurch earthquake, the influx of tradesmen into the city means the blokes are vastly outnumbering the ladies. In fact, Christchurch and Canterbury Tourism are so proud of their man flood they have seemingly issued a press release “calling all the single ladies to come and visit their city. I am happy to report I will be heeding their call in under six weeks’ time after my baby brother lent me the money to buy my airfare (this was due to a very unfortunate set of financial circumstances and an airline special that really was too good to pass up).

Discussing such a wondrous statistic with one of my Christchurch-based girlfriends the other day, she indicated that in reality the numbers were probably more like six to one in favour of the fairer sex. I bloody love those odds. If I was a betting woman, I would even back myself.

Who would ever have thought that a trip to Christchurch was better than a vibrator? Not me, but I’m more than happy to do my part for improved Trans-Tasman relations – sans batteries thanks very much.

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