Stitched Up

I’m sure if you go back and look at this blog from 18 months ago (although quite why anyone would choose to undertake such a thankless task is beyond me) I am sure that I made a prophecy. When I crossed the threshold of 40, albeit gracelessly and with much anger, I believe I declared to anyone who’d listen that no good would come of it. It turns out that I was right.

Other than having my wisdom teeth removed when I was 16 I’d never been given general anaesthetic for a medical procedure. I only opted for it with the wisdom teeth because they were buried deep within my gums and heading off course towards my existing teeth that such drastic measures for removal were even considered.

Then last year you may recall that I ended up having my gall bladder taken away from me, due to it developing a fault and being out of warranty. It serves no useful purpose these days anyway, much like a cassette player or a Liberal Democrat MP.

Now, another part of my wretched cadaver is suffering from wear and tear and needs surgical intervention.  To be honest, I had assumed that the recent stomach pain I’d experienced was a touch of trapped wind, however on the third or fourth bout of excruciating pain I decided to seek medical advice.

I visited a GP who asked me a few questions and then she got me to stand behind the curtain and drop my trousers. Having spent a couple of nights in hospital last year I’ve lost any embarrassment about such requests and will now merrily drop my trousers at will, whether people want me to or not.

In fact I’m not entirely sure the GP wanted to see quite what I was exposing to her but she didn’t scream or point and laugh, and following a quick prod around my lower stomach she concluded that I probably had a couple of inguinal hernias. To be honest I thought they’d be more noticeable but a subsequent ultrasound confirmed her diagnosis.

So the other week I was back at the hospital in front of a very cheerful surgeon (that’s private healthcare for you I suppose) who gladly signed me up to be cut open and have my hernias repaired and sealed. I asked if this was all really necessary as, despite what the present Mrs Hayward would tell you, I am not addicted to surgery.  In fact I am deeply suspicious of the whole thing.

The surgeon said that it’s best to get them done while I’m still young and fit as hernias can cause problems in later life. Notwithstanding his apparent short sightedness I’m not sure if later life is going to be much of a problem if parts of my anatomy keep packing up or falling apart. Unless this is some long term experiment to turn me into the Bionic Man, which could be advantageous; the special eye thing will be most useful to see if there’s a new guest ale on at the bar without me leaving my seat.

Mind you, if I were a caveman I’d probably be dead by now so perhaps I need to take the hernia on the chin (not literally) and behave in a much more stoic way, rather than whining on the internet. After all, it’s a miracle of modern technology that they can patch me up like I’m a rusty Ford Escort (Mk 2 of course) and send me on my way.

Oh well, it's only a few hours now until I have to show my face at the hospital at the ungodly hour of 7:15am, but that's still plenty of time for me to run through all the potential worst case scenarios, including but not limited to, the surgeon leaving implements inside my body, waking up during the operation, and the whole hospital being staffed by lunatics masquerading as medical staff.

Actually that last one may have happened on the previous occasion. He was called Dr Bob, but that’s another story.    

If I Had The Wings Of A Sparrow...

The last time I tapped out words for this blog, like a chimp trying to compose Hamlet, I made reference to the fact that I was about to take flight in a helicopter. I was nervous but exhilarated by the opportunity to take to the air in such a machine.

Having now done so I can tell you that it’s the only way to fly. None of this malarkey of charging at high speed down a runway in the vain hope of gaining enough momentum and lift so that a tin tube full of eager holidaymakers will be catapulted into the sky. Oh no, this was a gentle rise off the ground and away.

Equally there was no hurtling ourselves at the ground and braking like a maniac, it was a gentle touch down, like a feather dropping gracefully to the floor. The more I consider how elegant helicopter travel is I’m wondering why it hasn’t caught on and why we have opted for the flying metal bird approach.

The manoeuvrability and view is also a factor of why this is a magnificent way to travel. No peering through a tiny porthole to try and see the world below, there’s windows all around, big ones at that. If you want to turn round or fly lower it can be done very easily. The helicopter is therefore the black cab of air travel, whilst the aeroplane is the bendy bus.

My trip took me over Portsmouth, partly so that I could get a view of the place of my birth – the Isle of Wight (hereafter known as the Motherland). It was a clear day so I had a cracking view as we swept over Lee-on-Solent, up towards Portsdown Hill and then back over the Historic Dockyard.

Thankfully we didn’t suffer any bombardment from the ground as the locals below were blissfully unaware that a supporter of Southampton FC was swooping around above them like an emperor in a flying chariot.

The window of the helicopter was open and I was briefly reminded of a football chant, the sentiments of which involve dropping untold excrement upon the poor unfortunates on the ground, but as I’d reduced my solids intake to lettuce leaves and dust to ensure I was below the required flying weight I had nothing to offer in that department.

As it was, no-one weighed me from start to finish. In fact I was heartened to see passengers on earlier flights carrying much more in the way of additional baggage than I. It turns out that I may not have been the one to have eaten all the pies after all, although in my defence I would have made a substantial dent on them given the chance.

So, before I tail off onto another topic altogether, I can conclude that helicopter travel is the future. 

As I look proudly at the souvenir photo of me stood grinning next to this mighty machine with its rotor blades whirling furiously above my head, I can tick another thing off the list and pretend that I am not a middle aged man who works in an office, but I’m in fact the pilot of Airwolf.

Or I’m Noel Edmonds. One of those.