The nurse asked me to take off my pants. Shocked, I said, “What? I’m having the infiltration in my neck, not in my arse!” She giggled and checked her papers, realised the mistake, and told me to take off only my T-shirt and shoes before waiting in my cabin. Because the cabin walls were mirrored, I checked out my chest’s disappearing tan and tutted over my droopy stomach. Mid-tut, a fully gowned male nurse burst into the cabin and took me to the CT scanner room, where they asked me to lie on my back with my head in a rigid, grooved foam support. They were all in scrubs and masks this time. They asked if I’d had the procedure before; I said twice, but in my back. They told me to put my hands under my bum and keep absolutely still, even if they spoke to me or if I felt anything. I managed a muffled “yes,” trying not to move my jaw. The scanner pulled me in. After a few minutes, my usual ski-tanned neurologist appeared. A nurse scrubbed my neck with Betadine several times and tried to stic...