I’m not given to overly elaborate descriptions of things deemed ‘gross’.

But sometimes, something is so eye-wateringly, bottom-clenchingly, mouth-puckeringly horrid, I am compelled against my better judgement to share.

On Friday night I fell victim to what I fondly like to call The Scourge of Woman - a UTI, aka urinary tract infection or if you prefer: cystitis. Doesn’t just the name of it conjure up images of Geri Halliwell’s demonic little face?

Now then, a quiet word in the shell-like of men before I go on. Imagine your undercarriage were a Catholic heretic during the reign of Henry VIII. Imagine Lord Cromwell ordered you off to the Tower and after a spell on the rack, you were sent off to be killed to death by burning at the stake. Then imagine pissing razor blades while all that’s going on. Vivid? Good. Keep imagining, boys. Feel free to go ahead and stick some lighter fluid up your japs eye and take a naked flame to it, just to get the true sensation.

My failure to beat this wretched, cursed thing now means I’m halfway to a raging kidney infection. After a trip to the doctor, I’m medicated up to the eyeballs with paracetamol, ibuprofen and some sort of elephant tranquilising antibiotic.

God’s death. Sometimes I truly envy men. They might possess untidy genitalia and have the infuriating habit of shoving your head under the duvet when they fart, but they also metabolise booze quicker than us birds do, they don’t have periods and (most of them) have never, and will never, experience cystitis.

I do like boys. Just not very much at the moment.