I go for a screening, this time in a mobile unit in a car park. It is almost laughable except it isn’t. I am early because there is no waiting room, no screen, no loo to visit first.

I open the door and give my name. They agree they can see me early, tell me to get into a cubicle, take my bra off and put my shirt back on without the bra.

The cubicle is too small, I can only hang some of my clothes on a small hook. The rest are on top of my bag. I sit down on a mustard yellow bench which is the wrong dimension for me. There is a mirror which I am not looking in because I’ve already seen my face in it. everything is yellow.

I sit there, seething. The curtain that’s pulled across isn’t even properly closed. I snap it across.

I’m not waiting for long. I’m summoned into the screening room and told to bring everything with me.

I’m told where to stand and what to do and it isn’t dreadful but as soon as my breast is squished onto the shelf to take photos I fucking lose it.

No-one except me has touched them for over a year. I ask for a moment, and remember back to the colonoscopy and losing it then too. Younger me was fine with these things, older me is not.

I calm myself down and continue with the process: four photos, two of each breast in different positions. I’m told when to expect results and how.

As I turn to put my clothes back on I ask why the mobile unit.

I’m told it’s so the machine can travel around to each hospital, something about a community service.

The truth is surely something to do with cost cutting, probably designed by someone who doesn’t have breasts. Someone who definitely didn’t have to sit in that cubicle and feel rubbish.