Cut, cut, cut, blood, spurt, artery, murder (ahem)

I was going to mention this as an adjunct to Number 60 on the list in my last blog but, after someone suggested that posing nude in front of strangers might include having a baby (although she did recall wearing a T-shirt at the time), I thought I may have achieved it upon the occasion of my vasectomy some years ago - I would argue that, as a man, you probably couldn’t get much nuder than that in front of strangers - and the following account would not have sat well merely as an adjunct; I thought it more deserving of a separate blog, but make up your own mind about that. Those of a nervous disposition may like to squint a bit whilst reading. I would like to mention that I had a pre-op examination a few days before and it is the first time in my life (and the last, I hasten to assure you) that I have shaken the hand of an Australian, two digits of which, within seconds, were thrust unceremoniously up my arse. But I digress. Although I was told the operation would be done under a local anaesthetic (phew!), it was a day surgery job, so I was only at the hospital from about 9 a.m. until my sister-in-law picked me up late afternoon. I recall one or two incidents both during the day and the subsequent month I had to take off work. Eh? Well, because of the clot. Yes, the bugger with the knife and the one, er, down there. Think of a tennis ball. No, don’t. For 10 days, I had to sleep downstairs on the settee because I was unable to negotiate the stairs. And they made me take hot baths with salt and told me to squeeze clotted blood out. Excuse me while I wipe my eyes. Anyway, I got a Good Boy Certificate from one of the nurses who said that I burbled incessantly before I went under and, afterwards, I was wheeled into a recovery room with about eight other men, most of whom had had the same operation. A buxom sister would come in frequently and check our, um, bits. By her third visit, we were, in true Folies Bergères style, lifting our gowns in perfect unison – even the bloke in the bed next to me despite the fact he had only had an ingrowing toenail removed. All in all, a rather painful episode of my life which could possibly have been made less so had my sister-in-law not driven me home at about 60mph round country roads with me trying to take my weight on one or other buttock – and failing miserably. She meant well. When I got back to work, a friend of mine asked me where I had had the operation done. When I told him “Salisbury,” he replied “what, Market?” Oh, ha ha.