Are you sitting comfortably?

Large bolt for the hell of it.

Then I'll begin. Let me tell you a story, absolutely true, every word.

Years ago, 1971, I was the unwilling recipient of a spinal injury, playing heroes with the Royal Marines. Gradually over the years the area of the lower spine degenerated faster than the surrounding mass. In 1995 a very clever man was persuaded, by means of me thrashing his desk with my walking stick, to conduct a Stefi Fusion on me; the surgeon had foolishly told me I looked like an old man whilst I was in "considerable discomfort." The operation involved putting two large rods, six very large bolts and the hip joint from an old lady in my back as a bone graft. It was 50-50 whether I would walk or use a wheelchair afterwards. As I had been using a wheelchair upstairs in the house it didn't seem much of a gamble. Six months with your torso and one leg in a cast gives one plenty of time to assess one's future, aided by being declared redundant. We had decided that I would take over running the house and Mrs B would forge ahead with her successful career and qualifications. Happy house.

Four months later Mrs B's company held their annual Christmas bash at a very nice hotel. I was determined to be there and dance with my lovely lady. We booked a room, primarily because I was in a cast, needed to eat standing up and would have looked a wally doing so in the main dining room. Dressed in an oversized dinner suit, cummer-bund and dicky bow I was feeling very smart, if a tad rotund. My shoes had been gleamed, and tied on by Mrs B, who had in fact done everything to get me ready. The taste of gin was assuaging my thirst. A small circle of friends were surrounding us and enquiring where the key went to get me walking, my gait was like a wind-up toy soldier. Out of the blue the pencil neck finance director approached with his wife in tow.
"Ah, here's Mrs B's little man who does!" he remarked, pointing me out to his poor lady, as an embarrassed hush descended on our friends.

Now it's not often that I can be accused of thinking quickly, especially when I am renowned for my intolerance of dick-heads; however on this occasion I simply crushed his limp hand and said, "Well this has allowed me to conclude my studies for my PHD."
"PHD, what PHD?"
"Theoretical Gynaecology, I'm writing my thesis at present, and hope to finish the practical studies this week."
In any company, especially a polite social gathering the word "Gynaecology" causes ears of the female of the species, which are like radars anyway, to concentrate their attention on the speaker, this is usually accompanied by a slight blush. Males tend to look at their shoes as if they've never consorted with a female nor considered requalifying as a Gynecologist, they also get flushed but very brightly.
His next question had him hooked and landed in my net.
"What does a Theoretical Gynaecologist do?"

"Well it's fairly straight forward; I look at a lady, for example your good wife, and wonder to myself what it would be like to get into her knickers."

Stunned silence all round, then huge bellows of laughter. He stormed off, steam emitting from both ears with his wife in tow. I never had to buy another drink all night and had a wonderful meal all by myself in our room, along with a small drop of shampoo. Mrs B wanted to kick me around the dance floor, instead she hugged me tight and told me she was very proud of me as we wobbled about, her holding me upright and turning me around in my cast.

There is a saying you may have heard, "Don't get mad, get even."