As much as it sounds like an Enid Blyton tale from 'the faraway tree', it's not. It's my somewhat hazy account of this morning's trip to specialist number 2.
I knew it just wasn't going to go according to plan when I saw the crocs.
Every single nurse, lab assistant, and doctor that passed us sitting in the whispering room was wearing them. Crocs.
So there we sat, in the whispering room where no one makes eye contact with anyone else.
Magazines got flicked through, phones got checked and doubled checked, and throats were cleared.
It took all my restraint not to lean over to the guy next to me and ask 'So, what are you in for then?'
One by one the names were called, and all manner of couples, individual ladies, and a uniformed police man gathered their bits and pieces and left the whispering room.
Our appointment time came and went, when ET had the audacity to announce she had to go to the bathroom.
No. fucking. way.
She was not me leaving there, undoubtedly to be called by the doctor while on my own.
Rubbing my beer belly, and slowly waddling after the doctor would have raised a few eyebrows, even here in the mix n'match mummy & daddy clinic.
So, she held her piddle, and I held my tongue.
Finally we got whisper-summoned, and took our places across from a very intelligent looking doctor.
'So, what can I do for you?' she asked, proving once again you should never judge a book by it's cover.
'Er, short back and sides with a little off the top you infuriating mare!' I didn't reply.
ET launched into our background which the good doctor ignored and quizzed us on anyway, despite having just been told, and having our records from the last specialist in front of her.
'How long have you had a child wish?' she inquired.
'A bloody WHAT?' we gaped at each other.
'You know, a 'child wish', - "kinderwens" '
Glad I hadn't actually taken a wrong turn and ended up in neverneverland, I accepted her horrifically literal translation of the Dutch term for a desire to have a family, and moved on with the discussion.
When I say 'discussion' I of course mean the 5 minutes she spent to tell us that they would normally do nothing for people in our situation.
Me: 'Seriously, where are the cameras?'
ET & Me: 'Nothing'
We were advised to go home, keep trying, for 9 months more, which would bring us to the magic 24 cycles when mystical doors of opportunity and wonderous avenues of treatment would become available.
She shuffled her papers a few times, started to get out of her chair, but we just could not budge
Maybe it was the despair she saw in ET's eyes, or the plan to beat her about the head with the plastic uterus on her desk she saw in mine, but she caved a little and said she would discuss our options with "the board".
We 'may' have a possibility to check for tubular blockage, we 'may' have a cycle monitored, but it's all in the hands of "the board".
As Pacino-esque as it may sound, it's nowhere near as efficient, it will be 16 days before we get a phone call informing us of this almighty gathering's decision, which inexplicably takes place - this afternoon.
We went in with a lifeline, and brought it out in tatters.