Suddenly I became uncomfortable in the trouser department. Worse than uncomfortable. I felt this searing pain. I squeezed my legs together, willing myself not to say anything. While the Hutchinsons were lovely people, this was just too embarrassing. At twelve years of age, it can be difficult to work one’s testicles into the conversation. Trying not to draw attention to myself, I gingerly prodded at my pants. I squirmed in my seat, hoping the agony would pass. Weirdly, I can still remember the view from the window. I could take you back to the exact stretch of road, the pain having branded the view into my memory.

I rely on Wikipedia for a description of what was happening inside my body:

Testicular torsion occurs when the spermatic cord (from which the testicle is suspended) twists, cutting off the testicle’s blood supply, a condition called ischemia. The principal symptom is the rapid onset of testicular pain. Irreversible ischemia begins around six hours after onset and emergency diagnosis and treatment is required within this time in order to minimize necrosis and to improve the chance of salvaging the testicle.

Necrosis? Salvaging the testicle? I’m not a doctor, but that doesn’t sound good. Little did I know it, but my twelve-year-old ball was hanging by a thread; a thread that had tied itself in knots.

From this distance I want to shout to my twelve-year-old self, squirming as he was in the back seat of the car, heading up the Cooma road, in a direction that led away from the nearest hospital: ‘Hey, Richard: say something! Get over the embarrassment. Necrosis could be minutes away.’ But my twelve-year-old self doesn’t hear. He just squeezes his legs tighter and grinds his teeth together and stares out the window, hoping this will pass.

‘Irreversible ischemia begins around six hours after onset . . .’

Perhaps I should enlist the help of any possible future children and get them to shout out to him: ‘Hey, Dad, you really should say something, otherwise your balls will die and with them any hope of us being born.’

‘. . . diagnosis and treatment is required within this time to improve the chance of salvaging the testicle . . .’

Back in the car my twelve-year-old self sweats and squirms. He comes close to saying something, but his face flushes red with the thought.

Perhaps his future wife, should he ever have one, could intercede? ‘Come on, Richard. The day will come when those balls, absurd though they may be in appearance, will be considered with affection by someone, perhaps even by me, so don’t let them turn black just because you are here with these people you don’t really know, having been abandoned by your somewhat peculiar parents.’

Ah, that seems to have done the trick. Back in the car the twelve-year-old boy overcomes his embarrassment with a sudden yelp of pain. Bette looks around in concern. Stan stops the car. They can see how the blood has drained from the boy’s face. He tells them where it hurts. They turn around the car and head for Canberra Hospital.