Whinge (part 1 of X*)

"I don't trust anything that bleeds for three days and doesn't die."

Mr Garrison, South Park

Oh yes, three days on and things are looking... well not so much up as sideways, pinching the bridge of its nose and wishing it had never gone ahead with nasal bloody surgery. Three days of sleep deprivation -- never more than an hour a night, which is bad even for me –a permanent bloody drip (both figurative and literal), and a throat like the underside of a hedgehog have turned my 'Joie de Vie' into something more like 'Joie de Mort'.

And it's not my Mort I'm Joie-ing, either.

Phoned my surgeon today to tell him I'm still oozing blood, like fresh roadkill, to be told that it's not normal. Well, that's just fine and dandy. So not only am I in a hooring amount of discomfort, now I'm abnormal as well. How proud am I? Apparently this will all just go away on its own and I'll be right as rain in no time.

I hope so: I've got a thing with the Turrif Reading Group on Sunday, discussing the new book -- Radio Scotland are coming up to make a programme of it. And they'll be all like, "Dude, what the hell were you thinking when you wrote the finger scene?" and I'll be, "Mmmmshghg, gnnngnningn, fmmmninfin fnns..." while my nose does a Carrie on Prom Night.

That's pure showbiz magic, right there.

* Where X is a number between now and next Wednesday.