You know how it is when you're sitting there in the STD clinic and everybody knows why you're there and you know why everybody else is there and none of you knows where to look and you want to curl up and die from shame and embarrassment.
Except of course for that young, pimply, greasy-haired youth lolling back in his seat with his hands stuck down his trousers and his legs stretched half way across the room and a grin on his long thin idiotic face who regards it as some kind of badge of honour to have acquired a dose of the clap despite all the money that's been lavished upon his sexual education in an effort to make him behave responsibly in the boudoir.
Well, bad though the pervasive sense of guilt and remorse feels after what was nothing more than a brief interlude of pure romantic passion on a moonlit night, a veritable Mills and Boon moment (or in my case, a Bill's and Moon moment), think how much worse it was in the old days before they invented penicillin*. Back then they used to treat diseases of the willy with all kinds of noxious chemicals and vile potions. Frequently the cure was worse than the disease. Much, much worse. I'll spare you the details.
All of which medical experimentation gave rise to the rather witty saying: "One night with Venus means a lifetime with Mercury."
There but for the grace of God and Sir Alexander Fleming, dear reader, go you. Console yourself with that cheerful thought next time you're sitting there miserably waiting for your number to be called.
Either that, or exercise a little more self-restraint in future and stay out of the waiting room altogether.
* Reminds me of another old joke:
Question: What do you give the man who's got everything?