No, not that kind of walk of shame - not only am I married, I'm too old for that now: I would take pride in it rather than shame.
I was at the dentist today, having slinked out of an appointment on Friday 13th (are they KIDDING me ?!) You'll recall my morbid irrational fear. Today I was there for a filling, which involved a needle for anaesthetic being put into my pre-numbed back of my mouth. I cried. Silently, of course, since after all, I am an adult.
During my stay, tears continued to leak out in spite of my best efforts, the dentist's words of advice on how to calm down, and the death-grip I had on the dental assistant's hand - a very talented person who could handle all kinds of tasks with her remaining hand, as we found out.
I have to go back next week for either a triple trip for a root canal, or one single trip for an extraction. I have opted for an extraction - fortunately the affected tooth is in a place that will not leave me looking like I'm some kind of Appalachian hillbilly.
As I drooped and drooled home (the anaesthetic took 4 hours instead of 2 to wear off) I pondered my father, Belo, who regularly falls asleep during root canals and other dental nastiness.
I considered Titch, whose arm had to swell almost to bursting point with pus-filled yuck before he would consent to A&E.
I considered my Good Twin, whose pain threshold meant she thought a burst appendix was a particularly feisty bout of trapped wind. On the other hand, she thought her gall bladder packing up was agony, so please all my gods don't let that happen to me.
I considered my friend Dianne, among whose symptoms of Behcets is sweating blood. Literally.
And I considered my sister, Auntie Fashion, who has been in Addenbrooke's for just about 2 weeks so far while they work out what they can do about the PML without poking the Behcets back into action.
And I was ashamed.