Dick Vandyke

Ah yes, "Chim, chim cher-ree," indeed. Though I suppose in my case it should be "Chin, chin cher-ee," but who's counting?

Unless you're totally immune to whinging you'll know I've been banging on and on of late about my upcoming nasal surgery (Monday, 08:00 I'll be slipping off into la-la land for another dose of 'Oh dear GOD, why did I ever agree to go through this again?'). Not surprisingly, this cloud of portentous doom is hanging heavy over me like some sort of un-popped boil, full of puss and ouchiness. Mmm, isn't that a pretty image? To say that it's getting me down is a bit like saying people who wear white socks with black trousers and socks need a stern talking to*.

In fact it's caused such a dose of the blues that I shaved off my beard last night. And before you ask: no, there won't be any pictures. I can't stand to look at myself right now, so why the hell would I take a photo, load it up on the computer, resize it, fix the colour balance, FTP it up to the website and stick it in a post so everyone else can see what an arse I look like? Take it from me - I look like an vast arse.

But you see, I have a cunning plan: I am bearded. Beardiness is in me. It's who I am. By shaving the beard off I become someone else, and that's the poor bastard who'll have to go and have the surgery and suffer and bleed and feel like shit and wondering if life just isn't a big fuck-off bag of rusty razorblades into which we are forced to poke our genitals. And by the time the beard grows back and I am me again, the worst of it will be over, and I should be back on the road to recovery. See - CUNNING!

Assuming of course that Beardless Stuart wakes up after the operation.

He's exactly the sort of bastard who'd screw that up just to spite me**.

In the meantime I've got a little under an hour before I'm into 'nil by mouth territory', and as they're going to do a happy-fun biopsy on my throat tomorrow I'll probably be on 'nil-by-mouth for sodding ages after it as well. So if you'll excuse me: I have some hedonism to catch up on.

* When we all know that what they need, is taken out and have nails hammered through their testicles, because it's always bloody men who offend.
** And yes - I know it sounds all melodramatic and stuff, but I am seriously freaked out and worried this time. Much more than I was either time before***. So why the hell am I doing it? Because my quality of life is a hell of a lot worse than it was before that fateful first operation back in March. Hindsight is a wonderful bastarding thing.
*** Of course, the fact that this time I've been told one of the side effects is blindness (in addition to the whole 'accidentally draining off all the fluid from my brain' side of things), maybe that's not too surprising?