She did so in the end because, once again, Clare was always going to do what authority wanted her to do, however reluctantly. She knew there was no escape. She'd made the mistake (as she now regarded it) of sending back that first appointment letter and now she'd been sucked into authority's well oiled machine and she wouldn't be released until authority had finished with her. Authority, in the form of Dr Andrews, wanted her to ring up and make an appointment to be examined, so ring up she did.

She also made the mistake of not being late for lectures one morning and, finding herself in the lobby of her hall with plenty of time for once, she realised she had no excuse for not calling. Feeling strangely self conscious, she entered a phone booth and made sure the door was closed. She even listened for a moment to make sure no one was outside. She didn't want anyone overhearing this call! She took out the letter and read it yet again. It was as awful as ever. The number was at the bottom. She pushed her phone card in, mentally cursing that this was costing her money, and dialled.

She felt a bit sick as she heard it connect. She imagined Dr Anderson's secretary sitting by her phone, like a tarantula in its burrow, waiting for prey to stumble in, then pouncing. Another flight of fancy. Get a grip Clare.

"Doctors' secretaries," said an unfriendly female voice. Definitely a tarantula.

She put on her best and brightest front. "Oh, hello, I've, um, been told to make an appointment with Dr Anderson."

"Speak to reception for appointments, please."

A little taken aback she explained that she'd been told to call. Eventually the tarantula was persuaded to accept this position.

"Name, please?"

"Thomas. Clare Thomas."

"Hold on." A long pause, while the tarantula presumably searched a filing cabinet.

"Yes. I have you here. He can see you this afternoon at 4p.m."

Bloody hell. Clare had thought it might be next week. Or maybe next year. Or maybe next century.

Once again she had a sense of loss of control. She might have made the call but the time and date of her trial by ordeal was being given to her. "At least it gets it over with," she told herself.

Having snared its prey, the tarantula sunk in its fangs. "The doctor will see you in the smear clinic on the first floor. Bring the letter with you. Reception will tell you where to go."

That morning in lectures she was supposed to be thinking about Racine and Molliere but all she could think about was the appointment that afternoon. What was he going to do, this Dr Anderson? She knew roughly that the smear test involved having an instrument poked into your bottom. Was a man really going to do that to her? It was kind of unthinkable. It would be just too embarrassing. The letter just said "examination" so maybe he wouldn't. Maybe she was just being silly. They did do them, though, the male doctors, didn't they? She knew that from the chatter round the hall.

She'd have preferred more time to prepare. Thank God she'd washed her hair last night. When did she last shave her legs, though? Two days ago? Should be just about ok. She hoped she was presentable "down there" if it did turn out that he was going to be, well, you know, poking around. She'd showered but that had been this morning. She'd have to freshen up before she went over there.

She had lunch with her usual friends in the canteen but was unusually silent. For some reason there was a phrase about the condemned woman eating a hearty meal bouncing around in her head.

In her afternoon seminar, Clare's tutor noticed that one of his best and brightest students was below par. Clare's tummy was by now increasingly wobbly. She felt like she usually did before a different kind of exam.

After the seminar, she excused herself from walking back with the others. Feeling furtive and ridiculous, she went into the disabled toilet and locked the door. She filled the sink and stepping out of her long skirt and knickers, quickly washed her bottom front and back using soap from the squeezy dispenser. It stung a bit. Then she dried with scratchy paper towels. Jesus, what had they reduced her to, she thought.

Clothed again. She stood in front of the mirror. Rummaging in her bag she produced a hairbrush and pushed it through her hair. Then she pulled out her make up case and applied lipstick, mascara and a discrete amount of rouge. She felt better with some war paint on.

Finally she took out her trusty bottle of Heaven Scent and sprayed some behind her ears and, pushing her hand up her blouse, under her armpits. After a little reflection she sprayed more under her blouse and under her skirt for good measure. After a little more reflection and again aware of the indignity, she pulled out her waist band and squirted some down the front of her pants. That stung again. Bastard. She said to herself and the world in general. Still, she felt better prepared now.